Reunion, Part Two
by loobeyloo
Summary: Following on from Reunion, Hawke and Santini find themselves in dire straights, their misson in shambles, their lives in the balance
1. Chapter 1

_REUNION is an original story, inspired by the U.S. T.V. series AIRWOLF._

_Copyright refers to the author of this original material, and is not meant to supersede any copyrights held by Donald P Bellisario or any other persons or corporations holding rights to the television series AIRWOLF and its characters._

Chapter One.

**Africa.**

**The Sisters of Charity Mission, The Badlands.**

**The Kingdom Of Zarundi. **

**Sunday – Midmorning.**

"We're almost out of antiseptic, cotton swabs, thermometers," Sister Maud, a petite middle aged white woman, whose accent placed her origin from somewhere in the Midwest of the United States, with a round face and large, gentle brown eyes, emitted a soft little sigh of frustration.

"_**Thermometers,**_ for goodness sake, doctor!" she threw her companion, another white woman of average height and build, an apologetic look. "What on earth can they be doing with them?"

"They're glass, Sister. Easily broken," the other woman responded somewhat distractedly in the clipped and precise tones of a cultured, upper class English accent, catching her bottom lip between her teeth as she scanned the open supply cupboard before her.

It wasn't only thermometers she wondered what they were doing with, for it seemed that the strangest things seemed to be dwindling in supply, the latest being a run on bedpans for crying out loud!

She knew that a lot of it could be put down to the natural curiosity of their patients, and suspected that the next time she went to the village, she would soon discover that almost every hut had one of her lovely shiny chrome bedpans, and that each family had found a unique use for it, with the exception of that for which it had been invented!

Hospitals in big cities, she was aware, wrote off the loss of such things as towels, toilet seats, lavatory paper holders and bars of soap. It wasn't so different out here, except that the things that went missing from the Infirmary quite often ended up around the natives necks as items of jewellery, or as trophies on their walls.

Sometimes it was amusing, other times, just plain annoying, and then there were times when she found herself marvelling at the ingenuity of these shy, gentle, isolated people.

Scavenging was their way of life, and it was quite often curiosity to see what else they could steal that brought them to her door with their aches and pains and illnesses.

The doctor never made a big issue out of it. Whatever brought them to the Infirmary was good enough for her.

_**You can catch more flies with honey than with vinegar**_. Here that old adage was certainly true.

The cupboard was practically bare, and she was trying to work out when she would be able to make the much needed, but also much dreaded supply run to Nairobi, and how much it would cost to replace all the precious drugs missing from the shelves before her.

Medical supplies weren't the only things that they were running low on, and she was overdue to make the shopping trip to Nairobi, but the clinic had been busy, and she had been putting it off.

She hated being away, and lately the trip seemed to be taking longer. She had a long standing arrangement with a shipping agent in Nairobi, who was supposed to make arrangements for their regular supplies of gasoline, paraffin, canned and dried goods, linen and medical equipment, and all that remained for her to do was to submit a list of the more unusual items that the community required to function, and the precious drugs that they needed to keep the Infirmary running on a day to day basis.

However, in the past few months, when she had arrived at the warehouse and checked the inventory, there had inevitably been something missing, or something that he needed just a little more time to source, and it was usually the most important thing that had caused her to have to make the trip in the first place, so that had meant that she had no choice but to stay until it could be located.

It wasn't that she worried that the Sisters couldn't cope, or that some disaster might befall the community. She knew that they were all perfectly capable of managing in her absence.

She hated being away because the place was her home, and she loved it, and beyond that, out there in the big wide world, she felt lost, insecure, uncomfortable and way out of her depth.

This was where she had always wanted to be, even when she had been forced to spend so many years away, in school, and then studying for her medical degree and serving her apprenticeship in various hospitals as a resident, gaining experience and training in other specialist areas.

Her heart had always remained here.

This was where she truly belonged.

Here she truly was making a difference, not just going through the motions, making a fat salary and playing at being a doctor.

Here she was on the front line of medicine every day, and she thrived on it.

"I'm sorry, doctor, I will ask Sister Eve to have a quiet word with the other Sisters, about being a little less clumsy," Sister Maud tutted. "If they had to pay for things," she mused.

The doctor gave a small sigh and bestowed the nun with a benign smile.

No, there was no other place like it on earth.

Home.

She was content here.

Always on the brink of some crisis or disaster, even if it was only running out of washing soda or thermometers, always having to juggle with the traumas that were the day to day running of their little community, and making certain that her patients got the very best in care while they were here, always living on her nerves, ever ready for the next major outbreak of illness or disease that would stretch their limited resources and their stamina, and test their faith, always bone weary at the end of the day, but always contented and at peace, knowing that no matter how hard they had been, she had made the right choices for the path that her life would follow.

Although she was somewhat distracted this morning, it didn't mean that she wasn't aware of what was going on around her, especially the tuneless singing and the asthmatic wheeze of the old hand pumped organ coming from the church across the yard, and Father Patrick Callaghan's fire and brimstone sermon, his abrasive Irish roar, undoubtedly making the small congregation of Sisters and Keoma natives alike, cringe and cower on the edges of their pews.

The smile grew a little wider.

She and the other Sisters who shouldered the responsibility for nursing the sick, and performed the other necessary duties that kept the Mission running as smoothly as a well oiled machine, had taken early devotion this morning, and had thus been granted a respite from the Father's good old fashioned Bible thumping and 'fear of God' style preaching this beautiful Sunday morning.

Fortified and uplifted, the doctor had joined the middle aged nun, Sister Maud, to set about going through their routine inventory of the supply cupboards in the main ward, the dispensary, and the pharmacy where the more dangerous drugs were stored, making a note of the things that they were getting short of.

They had been at it for almost three hours and the list covered three pages of the doctor's lined note paper already, and with each new item added to the list, the doctor grew more and more concerned that she would not be able to put off the Nairobi trip for much longer.

It was always the same.

They were always short of something.

It got harder and harder for her to justify the time away from the mission, at least to herself.

She hated having to deal with the shipping agent, Burt Davis, the bank, her legal advisors and Church officials in Nairobi. The only pleasant part was that she got to sit at the controls of the wonderful old Dakota aircraft she had rescued from a scrap yard in Chicago and had rebuilt practically with her own hands over the years she had spent away from Zarundi, and savoured the feeling of freedom being up there in the clouds always gave her.

Unfortunately she could not manage to haul everything on her own, so Father Paddy accompanied her, acting as her chaperone, as well as helping her to physically move supplies, but the down side to that was that she was forced to listen to him constantly griping because he hated being away from the Mission every bit as much as she did, and which he used to cover his terror of flying.

He also had an annoying habit of sticking his nose in where it wasn't required, and putting other people's noses out of joint with his abrasive manner, which made life very difficult for her and resulted in her having to sooth more than a few ruffled feathers to get people back on side.

Later, after the mid day meal was eaten and cleared away, she would join Sister Eve, the community's Sister Superior, to inventory the supplies for the kitchen and the convent.

No doubt about it, she was going to have to bite the bullet and go to Nairobi in the next couple of days.

Oh well.

When the lists were prepared, she would run through them again and pick out the items that were not on their regular order, then get on the radio to Burt Davis in Nairobi, to request them, and then it would be up to him to organise everything so that it was ready when she and the elderly priest arrived to collect it.

She ran her eye quickly down the list, and knew that there was nothing that they could do to make it any shorter. Everything on it was essential to survival, no luxury items, and there was no way to make the supplies they did get stretch any further.

Everyone was very careful and used things sparingly, but things did get broken or wore out and needed to be replaced, and they all had to eat, even if their diet was limited and bland, due to the climatic conditions and lack of suitable storage facilities.

She had been through it with the Cardinal only last month, explaining that they were being as efficient and economical as they could be, but when it came down to it there were no more corners that they could cut, and stay healthy.

Besides which, she was the one who was actually shouldering most of the running costs, especially for the upkeep of the infirmary and the medical supplies and equipment required to keep it running,

The main house, her family home, naturally, was also her responsibility and she also contributed to the maintenance of the convent buildings, schoolroom and outbuildings, and most of the equipment, from her own funds, the Church really only taking responsibility for training, housing, feeding and clothing the Sisters.

She didn't quibble about her contribution, after all, it was only money, and what else would she be spending it on anyway?

She saw it as a way of recompensing the people for the fact that her ancestors had been plundering the Continent of it's riches for over a century, but it seemed that every time she saw the Cardinal, the Church was trying to find some way of reducing their contribution to the budget.

From time to time, it still crossed her mind that they were mad at her, punishing her, but then she told herself that it was ridiculous, that even though things hadn't quite worked out the way that they had all planned, they hadn't really lost anything of vital importance.

Indeed, from her point of view, they had all gained so much more.

The Cardinal knew that she would do anything to keep the Mission and the Infirmary running, it was her whole life, her dream, and she knew that he would do anything to maintain the order of nursing Sisters, as it was one of the few remaining in Africa, and one of the last places the Church had to send the young women who swelled its ranks not purely because they had a religious vocation, but also wanted to help those who were sick, and less fortunate than themselves.

She was just scribbling down the items Sister Maud had listed when she heard something unusual and out of place, instantly recognisable to her as the sound of an approaching aircraft.

Her keen hearing and pilot's brain told her that it wasn't the constant steady drone of a fixed winged plane, but the irregular thwack, thwack beat of a helicopter's rotor thrashing the air, but even to her keen, experienced ear, there was something odd about it, an animalistic whine or scream, and it was getting closer.

She and Sister Maud shared a concerned glance, and then, with her heart beating rapidly in her chest, leaving the Sister to continue with the list, and to guard the precious drugs left in the cupboard, the doctor went rushing out into the dusty yard.

The noise was deafening and she immediately brought her hand and forearm up to cover her face to protect her eyes and mouth from the storm of dust and debris being kicked up, but not before she caught a glimpse of Father Paddy's congregation tearing out of the church, terrified and wild eyed as they sprinted for the safety of the village, several miles away, the Sisters, their skirts hitched up around their ankles, rushing after them, trying to calm them and persuade them to return to the safety of the church, and the good Father himself, face like thunder, storming out of the church, ranting and raving and waving his fist angrily up at the reason for the sudden exodus from the morning service.

The doctor saw it too, and couldn't help standing there with her mouth open in astonishment and awe.

It was indeed a helicopter.

However, even for an experienced pilot like herself, it was like no other helicopter that she had ever seen, sleek and shark-like, no, more like a majestic Orca with its black and white livery, hovering and swinging gracefully.

The noise was deafening, the downwash almost knocking her off her feet, and yet, she couldn't take her eyes off it.

"What the devil!" Father Paddy fetched up beside her, breathless, red faced and fuming, but she knew that that was a cover for his genuine anxiety and concern for his flock.

"Are we being attacked?" he demanded to know, as the beautiful, powerful helicopter continued to sweep over the compound, then sank even lower, kicking up even more dust as it began to turn around in a slow, wide, lazy circle.

"I don't think so," the doctor responded, having to raise her voice to make herself heard over the din, watching in appreciation and fascination, shielding her dark green eyes for a moment before glancing back at the chopper.

"Then what does he think he's doing? What is he doing _**here**_?" Father Paddy demanded his cassock and vestments flapping around his stocky body, whipped up by the downwash.

"Ruddy young hooligan!" he railed, waving his fist at the hovering chopper. "Ah Be Jesus! Look at 'em go!" he waved his hand around the yard. "Doesn't he realise that it will take us months to persuade them to come within a hundred miles of the place again!" he blustered, watching in horror as the last of the Keoma natives scattered to the four winds, no doubt convinced that the good Father's sermon had conjured up some demonic fire breathing monster.

The doctor tried to conceal her amusement at his bluster, knowing that he was exaggerating.

They would be back soon enough, when someone got sick, or they needed food, or a new trinket, but he was right to be worried, for they were a timid people, shy and distrustful, and it had taken years of perseverance and friendly persuasion, to get them to the point of coming to the Church on Sunday, not to mention tireless diplomacy, infinite patience and more than a little 'horse trading'.

All those years of love and patience and devotion could just have been destroyed by the reckless act of some hot headed young maverick.

Except that the doctor didn't think it was that at all.

Squinting against the brightness of the sun and the dust storm being kicked up all around her, she watched the huge, magnificent helicopter as it turned in a wide circle around the yard, sending nuns and livestock scurrying for any cover they could find, then wobbling slightly, side to side, up and down, turned back the other way.

It was a very beautiful machine, like no other that she had ever encountered, but it wasn't a pleasure cruiser. She was built for speed and stealth, and heaven knew what was lurking behind the compartment doors she could see in the white under belly ...

"Maniac!" Father Paddy continued to yell at the chopper, but it was a futile waste of energy for it had spun around again now, tail rotor pointed in their direction, so that there was no way that the pilot could see the elderly priest's objections. "Go joy riding some place else, why don't you, you godless young thug!"

The doctor knew that the manoeuvre she was watching required skill and control, stamina, physical strength and dexterity, and she knew from her own experiences in a cockpit that it also required delicacy and quick reflexes.

The pilot at the controls of this chopper was no greenhorn on a joy ride. He was skilled and experienced.

This was not high jinx, or a stunt.

This pilot had a purpose.

Only a fool would do something as crazy as buzzing a populated settlement like this, just for the fun of it.

Something was wrong.

She could feel it.

"What the devil does he think he's doing!" Father Paddy continued to rant and rage, face flushed and dewed with perspiration, his rheumy blue eyes glittering with anger, when not shaded by his forearm.

The doctor watched as the chopper began to rise and turn, gaining height and speed now as it moved away from the main Mission buildings, still wobbling and juddering, just a little, engines screaming and whining.

"Well, can you believe that! What the devil did he hope to achieve!" Father Paddy blustered in outrage and astonishment now. "Can someone tell me what the devil that was all about!"

"To get our attention, Father," the doctor used the back of her hand to mop up a tear caused by the dust storm, as it slide down her cheek and then her long, delicate fingers to push a stray tendril of her short mouse brown hair back behind her ear. "And I would say that he succeeded."

"But why? To what end, doctor?" Father Paddy frowned, dusting down his clothes now, then looked up at her quickly, a dark, suspicious expression on his face now, and she could quite clearly see that his mind was filled with notions of all the wickedness that men were capable of suddenly being visited upon them.

"Because I think he's in trouble," she told the priest, reaching out to lay a reassuring hand on his forearm now.

True, the helicopter hadn't looked as if it were damaged, at least not externally, but that didn't mean that there wasn't a malfunction with instrumentation.

There could have been an electrical failure, or even a fire in the cockpit.

The doctor put herself in the pilot's place for a moment, and knew that she would have done exactly the same thing in his position, and that answered the priest's question about why here.

This was the only inhabited place for hundreds of miles in any direction, the last place where it could be possible to raise the alarm, and get assistance.

"I think he has a big problem, Father," she continued. "And he needed to make enough commotion to get someone curious, or angry enough to go after him," she reasoned.

"What? You're not?" his eyes grew wide with panic now. "You can't!"

"Why not? It is what we're here for, isn't it Father? There are people in that helicopter, and they could need our help."

"But .… But …."

"C'mon Father, I could use a little of your muscle, if nothing else. Don't just stand there …."

"Are you out of your mind!" he reached out for her arm as she began to move away from him now. "Think child! They could be drug dealers, rapists, murderers!"

"Or they could be ordinary people, sick people, Father, people who need our help," she reasoned gently, and saw the shame flash through his eyes, briefly, for his cynicism and lapse in faith in the goodness of human nature.

"One of these days, my girl, that good heart of yours will get you killed."

"Not while you are here to watch over me, Father. Now, are you coming along or not?"

"Someone has to be responsible for your immortal soul!" he mumbled, hitching up his cassock skirts to hurry after her as she made her way quickly toward the rickety old wooden shed where they housed the flatbed truck that functioned as supply truck, ambulance and fire truck when the need arose.

"I must be crazy," he snorted as they rushed into the shed.

"Look on the bright side, Father, if they're alive, you'll have some new warm bodies to attend Mass, and if not, you'll be able to administer the Last Rites!" the doctor grinned as she yanked open the driver's door and slid inside. "I'd say that that makes for a 'win win' situation all around, wouldn't you?"

"Wicked child!"

"I have my moments, Father," she grinned, reaching out to turn the key in the ignition, the old engine protesting loudly, forcing her to stomp on the gas pedal and pump the choke a couple of times before the spark plugs caught and the ancient engine rumbled into life.

"Then I look forward to hearing you next confession!" he managed a wry half smile now, as she shunted the vehicle into gear and eased it out of the shed, sounding the horn to get the attention of a small group of Sisters making their way back toward the infirmary now that the show was over.

"Sister Ann," she called out through the open driver's window as the nuns came to see what she wanted. "Run to my office and fetch my medical bag, please. Sister Catherine, would you go to Sister Eve, offer her my apologies, then tell her that we could have casualties coming in shortly and ask her to please send to the village for some of the boys to help us, then both of you get back here as quickly as you can. I need you to come along and give Father Callaghan and me a hand."

Both nuns nodded and hurried away as quickly as their skirts and their vows would allow, while the doctor kept the truck's ancient engine idling, watching the confusion still going on in the courtyard beyond as several of the Sisters chased various terrified and rebellious goats and chickens and geese, trying to round them up and secure them in their pens, from whence they had escaped, and tried to smother a smile.

"I hope you're right about this, doctor," Father Paddy sighed heavily, mopping his brow with a tattered linen handkerchief, catching his breath now.

"I can't see any other reason for doing what that pilot did," she told him pointedly. "It's what I would have done too, if I were in trouble and had no other way of communicating it."

"There's that word again, _**trouble**_! I don't like it," he sighed heavily again and turned to regard her with an expression of deep concern etched into his weather beaten, lined face. "We're very vulnerable here, doctor. We're taking a great risk."

"We do that every time we walk into the village when there is sickness, Father, but neither of us has ever let it stop us from giving the care and assistance they need," she reminded him.

"Nevertheless, child, I can't help thinking it's a bad omen. A machine like that can have no good purpose."

Drumming her long, delicate fingers against the steering wheel, the doctor had to silently concede that he had a point.

Politically, the whole Continent of Africa was a tinderbox, and the prospect that any one of the current governments could produce such a machine terrified her.

A country equipped with a fleet of machines like that could seriously alter the balance of power in the region, and that could threaten the security of the smaller, independent nations, like Zarundi and some of her other close neighbours.

Zarundi was very small, and fortunately, not very significant as far as the rest of Africa was concerned, possessing no natural resources to plunder and no political rivalries, unlike their neighbour to the east, Kembala.

The doctor wondered if that was where Father Paddy's thoughts had strayed, to the precarious political situation to the east and the worrying development of Soviet intervention in the already uncertain climate.

Their mission was located in The Badlands of Zarundi, a remote, arid desert, hostile and barren, boxed in on three sides by choking jungle, making it practically inaccessible by foot expect by those more intrepid of explorers, and the local tribesmen, and they had few visitors from the world beyond their borders, however that did not mean that they did not have any contact with the rest of the world at all.

There was always the radio, which enabled them to make contact with places like Nairobi and Johannesburg in the case of a dire emergency, and then there were newspapers and magazines available to the doctor when she made the trip to Nairobi, and there was always rumour, supposition and outrageous gossip too, supplied in copious amounts by Burt Davis, enjoying the fact that he had a captive audience while they went through the crates and boxes and packages he stored for her.

The doctor usually took most of what came out of Burt's mouth with a healthy pinch of salt, but sometimes, he managed to let something drop that she found informative or interesting.

In general, she did not let the goings on in the rest of Africa worry her too much, because their little part of it was resource poor and had been ignored or simply overlooked by her more prosperous neighbours for years, but the news that the Russians were actively involved in backing Joshua Mendofa's campaign to become President of Kembala had disturbed her greatly, especially as the man's opponent, Robert Nimbani, was a distant cousin of the Keoma tribe's King, and had often visited the village to pay his respect to his royal cousin.

She had met him, once or twice, and had found him to be a very charismatic man, who genuinely cared for his downtrodden people, and it had been obvious to her that if the man had a chance to become their leader, he would serve the people of Kembala well.

Zarundi was fortunate to have a stable, peaceful political system and that it had nothing that the rest of Africa would be interested in claiming, and she knew that the rest of the world probably had no idea that there even was such a nation.

The Keoma were a simple, peaceful people who had a hard enough time existing from day to day, constantly battling against the threat of famine and disease, she dreaded to think how much more difficult her own work might be if the political climate ever changed, destabilized, and she was forced to work under the threat of civil war.

"So, where do you think it came from?" Father Paddy asked on a deep sigh, reaching out now with his right hand to lay it down atop hers on the steering wheel, stilling her drumming fingers.

The doctor shrugged absently.

There had been no markings that she could recall on the pristine black and white livery of the beautiful, majestic helicopter. No Nationalistic symbol to indicate her country of origin, and no designation number.

As an experienced pilot, she found this surprising as every civilian aircraft was required to carry a designation for identification purposes, and military aircraft usually carried some symbol identifying the nation, or body they represented, also for identification purposes, especially in battle conditions, making it easier to differentiate between friend and foe.

"I don't know, Father, but I think we can both guess," she sighed softly. "He came in from the east," she recalled and raised an eyebrow. "How's your Russian?"

The elderly priest actually gulped as he turned back to stare at her, open mouthed, and she suddenly realised that the thought hadn't even entered his mind.

"I'm sure it will be fine, Father," she reassured, immediately regretting making his thoughts turn to the troubles in Kembala. "Remember, we're all God's children."

""Humph!" he growled.

"They are human beings, and they could be sick, or injured, or even dying."

There was an edge to her voice now that indicated that she was losing patience with his lack of faith in human nature and his always seeing the negative. She could not understand how he could continue with his ministry with such a cynical attitude.

She would have said more, but was distracted by the return of the Sisters, Ann and Catherine, both a little breathless and flustered as Ann passed her medical bag to her, and which she slide down into the footwell in front of Father Paddy, and then waited as both ladies scrambled up with as much dignity as their skirts would allow, onto the back of the truck.

Father Paddy must have seen the look on her face, and come to his own conclusions.

"Child, I know you think I am a cynical old wreck, but I have so many lives to consider here," he reminded her softly.

"Me too, Father," she acquiesced as she waited for the ladies to settle themselves in the back. "But the simple fact is, that pilot made an obvious and determined effort to get our attention, to request our assistance, and I for one can't ignore that," she engaged the clutch slowly now and eased the truck out further into the yard, scattering the scrawny chickens and cockerel who strutted around in the shade, clucking and crowing in protest at having been disturbed, again.

"Says you, I say they could have had an altogether more sinister motive for all that commotion."

"We'll soon see, Father. What is it you are always telling us? The Lord works in mysterious ways …."

"Indeed he does," the elderly priest sighed in exasperation, and his expression told her clearly that he was still at odds with his Maker, even after all this time, over His decision to bring _**her**_ here, to disrupt his previously orderly, placid, hum-drum existence, with her wilfulness, determination and bloody mindedness, her compassion, devotion, loyalty and goodness, challenging him as no other individual ever had.

And he loved it, thrived on it.

She tested his faith on a daily basis, and she questioned his every thought and word, but in a positive way.

Through her, he had found a fresh perspective on life, and to his vocation and his faith, making him really think for the first time in years, and re-examine his reasons for entering into the Priesthood all those years ago, and his hopes and ambitions.

Father Paddy silently thanked God daily for his infinite wisdom in guiding her here, to reawaken his passion and his drive, for pricking his conscience and inspiring him to be a better man, not just a better priest, and giving him a new lease of life, in not allowing him to become jaded, or to rest on his laurels.

The elderly priest knew that he wasn't perfect, that he was still inclined to look on the dark side, prone to cynicism and intolerance and impatience, and that he probably always would be, for he did not aspire to Sainthood, just to doing the best that he could with the tools the good Lord had given him, but since she had arrived, these things had been tempered with good humour and a genuine drive to make life better for the Keoma people.

He was enjoying being a priest again, for the first time in years, and he was really beginning to see the difference.

He loved her too, dearly, for she was a real joy to be around, a constant source of inspiration and amusement, and as well as being a wonderful breath of fresh air amongst the staid, rigid, solemn Religious community.

He also knew that she was the best damned thing that could ever have happened to the people of the Keoma tribe.

She was a wonderful doctor, quiet, patient, ready to listen, gentle and sensitive to her patients feelings as well as their medical needs, but she was also thorough and dedicated and an intuitive diagnostician.

As a young woman she was compassionate, thoughtful, quick witted, devoted, determined, fiercely intelligent, as you might expect from someone with the intellect that enabled them to obtain a medical degree, but in his experience most doctors he had met over the years had proved to be arrogant, insensitive, overbearing, over educated twerps.

She was a genuinely warm, sensitive, and caring human being with a wicked sense of humour and the ability to laugh at herself, but she was also stubborn, feisty and wilful, unyielding, and unwilling to back down, or listen to reason, stopping at nothing to get what she wanted if she believed it was right for her patients, and she was brave too, fearless, allowing nothing to get in her way when it came to healing the sick.

She had won many hearts since she had been here, and if he were honest, he could not envisage a life without her here.

He considered them all to be very fortunate that she loved it here, and that she was content to live out the rest of her life here with them, although, there were times when he couldn't help thinking that it was a shame that she hadn't found some young fella to share her life with, to pour out all that love and affection and devotion to, and raise a brood of beautiful, intelligent children of her own with, instead of always having to be content with caring for other peoples.

They were all much better human beings for her being in their midst, a constant source of inspiration and admiration, and even Sister Eve had been moved to admit that she had proved to be the perfect role model for the younger nursing Sisters, with her willingness to go the extra mile, or stay up all night to sit with a sick child or a dying tribal elder, and then work a full day in the Infirmary and clinics without having had any sleep, without complaint, and her genuine disappointment, frustration and grief when despite all her efforts, her knowledge, care and prayers, she lost a patient.

Of course, she wasn't perfect either, but she aspired to be, constantly striving to be better, and she was her own fiercest critic.

He knew there were times that she struggled with the demons of depression and melancholy, and lack of self confidence, and he knew that there were things in her past that troubled her, but even though he was her priest, she did not often confide in him, and he knew next to nothing about her life before she had joined them here.

One thing he did know. She belonged here, more than he ever would, despite the fact that the Mission had been his life and his home for close to ten years.

He had worked under three other doctors during that time, seen dedication and devotion above and beyond the call of duty from all of them, but he had never known anyone quite like her.

The place was in her blood, and she had a genuine affection for the Keoma people, and he had quickly learned not to try to get in her way in all matters pertaining to the medical care of her patients.

She also had some influence when it came to the purse strings, and getting Cardinal MacDonald to agree to her suggested improvements.

Over those ten years, she had spent time with them during her summer vacations from medical school, and he had watched her grow up, growing in confidence, seeing a compassionate, mature, studious and genuinely caring young woman who was deeply touched by the plight of the Keoma people, and who really listened to what they had to say about what the Mission and the Infirmary needed, and saw to it that they got all the equipment they required.

Over the years, she had been the one to instigate the building of the schoolroom, and had put the wheels in motion to upgrade the aging, struggling electrical supply system, had started the project to find new water supplies and build the new well-head, irrigation and sewer system to the convent, and then she had set into motion the improvement of the medical facilities for the Infirmary and seen to it that they had the most up to date equipment and drugs to function properly, dragging the mission well and truly into the twentieth century.

She had finally made the move to stay here permanently two years ago, when she had finally completed her last specialist residency in surgery and knew that she now had all the qualifications and experience that she needed to provide the Mission with all the medical skills it might require, and she had transformed the place, adding two new operating rooms and starting up clinics to immunise the children of the outlying villages but, he conceded silently and a little regretfully, he knew little more about her today than he had that first day, when she had arrived, all fired up and eager to get started on building things up.

What he knew of her, he had gleaned from watching her and working with her, but mostly she was still a closed book to him, and he was deeply sorry that she still could not find it in her self to open up to him and confide in him, either as her priest, or as her friend.

He had come to both like and respect her deeply.

All in all, in another life, had he chosen a different path, the priest knew that she would have been a daughter that he would have been very proud to claim as his own, but as things stood, he had to be content to have her blessed friendship.

"So," he asked, drawing in a deep breath as he recognised the twinkle in her lovely deep green eyes and the determined tilt of her chin, and knew that he would not be able to talk her out of this insanity, wishing that he could summon up one half of the excitement and exhilaration that she was obviously feeling at the prospect of this new challenge, instead of this heavy feeling of unease and trepidation in his chest.

"Any idea where we're going?" he arched an eyebrow inquiringly.

A smile began to form slowly on her lips now, and it illuminated her otherwise quite ordinary and unremarkable features, bringing with it a rare beauty that never failed to fill his old heart with warmth and pride and real affection for her.

She raised her right index finger to touch the tip of her nose then used the finger to point through the windshield at the expanse of arid, barren flatland that stretched as far as the eye could see beyond their boundary fence.

"Thataways," she grinned and pressed her foot down hard on the gas pedal.

"Oh terrific, hang on back there ladies, we're off on a mystery tour!"

This comment received a few nervous giggles from the nuns in the back of the truck.

"Whoever these people are, I hope they come to realise just how lucky they are to have landed in our backyard."

"I'm sure you'll see to it that they do, Father," she continued to grin as she guided the truck through the open gateway and out into the unforgiving desert.


	2. Chapter 2

REUNION is an original story, inspired by the U

_REUNION is an original story, inspired by the U.S. T.V. series AIRWOLF._

_Copyright refers to the author of this original material, and is not meant to supersede any copyrights held by Donald P Bellisario or any other persons or corporations holding rights to the television series AIRWOLF and its characters._

Chapter Two

**Africa.**

**The Badlands Desert,**

**The Kingdom Of Zarundi. **

**Sunday – Mid day.**

It did not take long for them to find their quarry, indeed it would have been hard to miss the magnificent machine, shimmering in the heat haze rising off the desert floor in the otherwise flat and featureless plain, like some felled prehistoric creature.

The doctor brought the truck to a halt a little ways away, staring at the beautifully crafted helicopter, which looked even bigger now that it was on the ground, silent and still, the only blot on the pristine landscape.

She could feel the tension building inside her, her heart rate rising, her palms sweaty as she gripped the steering wheel, her body preparing her to face whatever may come.

She drew in a long, calming breath, and out of the corner of her eye caught the elderly priest watching her, a frown drawing down his dear old features.

She knew that he was worried.

She knew that he disapproved, but she also knew that he would follow her to the end of the earth, if only to keep reminding her of her recklessness and stupidity and that it would get her killed one day, and that he had been the one to tell her so!

He probably wondered why they were just sitting here, procrastinating and admiring the view.

It would not cross his mind that she was mentally preparing herself for whatever sickness or injury she might find once they opened up this particular Pandora's Box.

He probably hoped that she had seen the error of her ways and was having second thoughts.

Not quite, but she had to concede that she couldn't get that old adage,_** 'fools rush in where angels fear to tread …'**_ out of her head.

She knew that they were indeed taking a great risk, that, any minute now men with guns could pour out of the chopper and force them to do Lord knew what, but she squashed that notion immediately, as it was ridiculous. They had nothing of value, indeed, nothing at all that anyone would consider even remotely worth their while holding them all under siege, or for ransom for.

All that they had was what they were willing to offer freely and unconditionally.

Food, water, shelter and medical assistance.

However, there was one other possibility.

That opening up that chopper would indeed be like opening up Pandora's Box, and she might be responsible for releasing some deadly contagion upon them all.

She wouldn't think of that, just like she couldn't think about the possibility that she was introducing some new virus or infection into the Keoma village whenever she went there to attend a birth or carry out a clinic.

If it happened, she would deal with it, just as she dealt with everything else the good Lord threw at her.

She had to trust her instincts, and they were all screaming at her that the people in that chopper were here because they needed some kind of help.

All was silent and still, the beautiful helicopter looking even more like a beached killer whale now, basking in the noon day sun, the tail rotor, moving gently with each little puff of desert breeze and the main rotor slowly winding down.

There was no sign of life from inside, and no sign of footprints in the surrounding sand, indicating that the crew had gotten out safely and perhaps set out on foot to find their way back to the Mission.

Taking another deep, calming breath, the doctor took her foot off the brake, engaged the clutch and allowed the truck to creep forward, then gathering speed she steered it in a wide circle around the stationary chopper, scrutinizing the hull, checking to see if there were any obvious signs of external damage, that might result in a fuel leak for instance, that could endanger the rescue party, before finally coming to a stop, nose to nose with unidentified aircraft.

Peering through the truck's windshield into the cockpit, the doctor could see no-one at the controls, and frowning, she opened up her door and slid out of the truck, the desert heat slamming into her immediately, taking her breath away, briefly, and causing perspiration to soak through the thin material of her blouse and to bead on her brow, before she walked slowly toward the chopper, aware of the priest and the two Sisters watching her anxiously, knowing that they would take their cue from her as to when it was safe for them to approach, and that she could not work efficiently or effectively with them crowding in on her.

She slowly approached the helicopter's right side, where she would have expected to find the pilot seated at the controls, and she had to shield her eyes from the glare of the sun against the window in the door, as she pressed her face up close against it to peer inside, letting out a little gasp of surprise as she found someone lying, half twisted in the seat, so that all she could see was back and shoulders, prone, slumped slightly sideways across both front seats.

Her heart began to race and her mouth suddenly went dry, as squinting in through the side window, she immediately became aware of the blood soaking through the pilot's thin grey flight suit on his or her left shoulder.

She immediately turned back to face the truck, beckoning to Father Paddy to bring her medical bag and he responded quickly, rushing over to join her and peer inside the cockpit over her shoulder.

"Oh good Lord!"

The doctor located the door release and the mechanism gave a gentle hiss as it disengaged and the door popped open, and then she was quickly pulling the door wide open and reaching inside, noting as she did so that her patient was a white male, of as yet indeterminate age, of slender build with short chestnut brown hair.

She fumbled around the Velcro fastening at the neck of his flight suit to try to find a pulse and quickly found the warm column of his neck and jammed her fingers against it, instantly feeling the rapid, thready flutter in his carotid artery.

"He's alive," she told Father Paddy, with obvious relief. "And it looks like he has a gunshot wound to his left shoulder," she reeled off, ducking further inside the cockpit now so that she could get a better look, not wanting to even attempt to move him until she knew exactly what it was she was dealing with.

"Holy Mother," the elderly priest murmured and crossed himself quickly.

The pilot was lying awkwardly, slumped over on his left arm, but what she could see of the limb gave her immediate cause for concern, a thin stream of blood, trickling in a slow by steady rhythm from the wound in his shoulder.

She knew instantly what that meant. He was bleeding from an artery, more blood pumping out of the wound with every beat of his heart.

There was no other obvious sign of injury, or violence, but she was curious about the way that he was sprawled out across the seat.

Logic told her that if he had simply blacked out at the controls after landing the chopper, his position would be more upright, the top half of his body slumped forward over the control stick.

Then she realised that he appeared to be reaching out for something, and it was then that she realised that he had something in his hand.

She let out a startled little gasp of surprise as she realised that it was another man's hand, and she then let out another little gasp as she suddenly recognised the ruby set signet ring that nestled on the fourth finger.

_**No, it couldn't be!**_

"Doctor?"

Father Paddy reached in to place his hand on her shoulder when he saw her start.

"There's someone else in the back," she told him by way of explanation, in a tight voice, pulling herself hastily back out of the cockpit, only to then duck right back inside, leaning carefully over the unconscious pilot, and with gentle, but somewhat unsteady fingers, she reached out and moved his head carefully, turning it so that she could get a look at his face.

She gave another startled exclamation and swiftly backed out of the cockpit, almost falling backward into Father Paddy, who steadied her, placing one hand on each of her shoulders, alarmed by the shocked expression on her now pale face and the speed of her retreat from the inside of the cockpit, almost as though she had been burned or bitten, or had an electric shock.

Her dark green eyes were big and filled with shock now, and for the life of him he could not understand what was happening.

She was a sensible, level headed young woman, and wasn't prone to hysteria or fits of the vapours, couldn't afford to be in her profession, but he had never seen her react in such a way before, and Lord knows he had seen her deal with all manner of bloody and ghastly sights over the years, without turning so much as a hair.

This was different.

It wasn't a reaction to the sight of the man's injury.

No.

It was a reaction to the sight of the man's face.

"Friends of yours, Dr Jarvis?" he arched an eyebrow inquiringly, but it was a needless question, for he could see the recognition in her eyes now, along with shock, and something else that he couldn't quite put a name to.

"_**Mackenzie!" **_

There was genuine concern in his voice, when she swayed alarmingly against him, but then she recovered her wits quickly, snapping out of the trance she had fallen into, and after dragging in a few deep breaths of the burning desert air, she pulled herself together, and gently pushed the priest out of her way as she quickly moved around the front of the chopper to the other side, cracked the door, and without hesitation climbed inside, moving to where an older, heavier set man, his head encased in a solid black helmet, lay slumped over the console before him, his left arm hanging limply down, the fingertips of his gnarled old hand resting gently in the palm and slightly curled up fingers of Stringfellow Hawke.

"I asked you a question, Mack," Father Paddy spoke impatiently now.

Mackenzie Jarvis continued with her initial visual examination of Dominic Santini, her heart beating erratically in her breast as she quickly located the gunshot wound to his back, noted his pallor, shallow, irregular breathing and clammy skin, all the time wondering how and why Hawke and Santini were here, in her backyard, after all these years, when she had thought never to see either of them again.

"I'm going to need your help to get them both out of here, Father," she ignored his questioning look, then let out a deep sigh of irritation when he continued to glare at her.

"They're Americans, Father. The pilot's name is Stringfellow Hawke. The man in back here is his, well, for want of a better word, surrogate father, Dominic Santini, and yes, I am acquainted with them. Hawke and I attended the same High School, briefly, a very long time ago, and no, I haven't seen him since we were teenagers and no, I didn't know they were going to drop by, or I might have baked a cake."

Her sarcasm was no lost on the elderly priest, but he bit back the angry response that was on the tip of his tongue, realising that she was genuinely disturbed to discover these two men from her youth, both badly injured and requiring her medical expertise, and he decided that he could wait for her to expand on her acquaintanceship with both of these men, once their conditions were stabilised and she had had time to come to terms with their presence here, and her feelings about that.

"Now, will you please get the Sister's over here. This man has a gunshot wound to the back. Looks like a through and through, but from the look of him, I'd say it caught the lung on the way out," she reported in businesslike tones now, then reached out to tug gently at the helmet that encased the older man's head, easing it off very gently and setting it aside carefully before continuing.

"Hawke's shoulder wound is quite serious. I think the bullet might still be in there, and it looks to have nicked an artery, so we'll have to be careful how we move him, or he could bleed out. They both need to get into surgery as soon as possible, Father …."

She spoke quickly, rattling off instructions, all the time she did so, her fingers busy with locating Dominic Santini's pulse, then gently probing around the entry and exit wounds, not allowing herself to stop and think about what misfortune had brought both men here, but thanking God that He had guided them to her, so that she could help them.

"Give me my medical bag please, and then I'd appreciate it if you would help me get Hawke upright, Father," she requested of the priest, in more gentle tones now, carefully kneeling down in the cramped engineering compartment so as to be able to place her hands easily on the unconscious pilot's shoulders, ready to push him up into a sitting position, which would help him to breathe more easily, and which in turn would make it easier for them to get him out of the cockpit, but she suddenly stopped, giving another little yelp of surprise, when her toes connected with something pliable, and she quickly glanced over her shoulder to see what was in her way, only to find another, dark skinned man, lying in a heap on the floor behind her.

She immediately turned around, mindful of banging her head against the console where Santini was still slumped, and reached out for the prostrate man's hand, grabbing his wrist to try to find the pulse there, but there was none.

"There's another man back here, Father," she told the elderly priest with a soft sigh, by way of explaining her erratic behaviour.

"Do you know him too?" he demanded irritably now, his sarcasm not lost on her either as she watched him turn around now, waving frantically at the two nuns in the back of the truck, summoning them to come and join them.

"No," she gave another deep sigh of impatience then. "He's African, mid twenties, and from the look of him, I'd say he was being held prisoner somewhere. His clothes are filthy and in tatters, and he looks like he hasn't been fed for months."

"Ah Be Jesus!"

"He's dead," she gave another deep sigh of resignation now, as the elderly priest stuck his head back in through the open door and peered deeply inside the cockpit. "Another gunshot wound," she concluded.

"Dear God, who are these people, and what the devil have they gotten us involved in!"

"I don't know, Father," And right now she could care less. "All I can tell you is that when I knew them, Hawke and Santini were good people, men of good conscience. Whatever they're doing here, it will only be for the greater good."

"I hope you're right."

"Just take my word for it, for now, Father, and help me to get them out of here."

The look which she gave him now would have turned a lesser man to Jell-O, and he recognised it immediately, from years of experience of working with her, as her no nonsense, 'don't cross me' look.

He had no idea who these two men were, or what they were to Mackenzie Jarvis, but seeing the expression on her face now, he had no doubt that anyone who got in the way of her bid to help them, would be very sorry.

Very sorry, indeed.

Yes, they were two very lucky fellows.

The Lord had obviously been with them, watching over them, and now that they had the good doctor batting for them, even the good Lord Himself had better watch out!

"Very well, doctor," Father Paddy gave a soft sigh of resignation. "Tell me what to do."

"Thank you, Father," she blessed him with a smile now, relief evident in her voice, and again he could not help wondering what these two men were to her. However, it was also obvious that he would get nothing out of her until she was satisfied that she had done all that she could to stabilize both men, and they were both out of danger and on the mend.

"Let's sit Hawke up, and then we'd better get Mr Santini out of here."

He handed her the battered old black medical bag, then working together, with infinite care, Father Paddy and the doctor eased the unconscious pilot, the man she had named as Stringfellow Hawke, up into a sitting position.

For the most part, the young man remained unconscious while they moved him, although his eyes did flutter open, briefly, but he did not show any signs of real awareness of what was happening to him, as he let out one, low moan of pain, before again succumbing to unconsciousness and slumping into the doctor's arms, as they tried to get him to stay upright in his seat.

Even to the priest's unqualified eye, it was obvious that his condition was not good.

Father Paddy Callaghan watched as Dr Jarvis again took the young man's pulse, then gently laid her hand against his brow, frowning deeply when she felt the heat and perspiration there, realising that it meant that his temperature was elevated and that he was possibly running a fever.

She deftly opened up her medical bag and pulled out the things she needed, slipping her stethoscope around her neck and laying the blood pressure testing equipment on the cabin floor beside her, then fished out one of the few precious thermometers she still had, and pulling open the front zipper fastening of the young man's flight suit, gently slipped the thermometer under his armpit, leaving it there for a few moments before withdrawing it and making a note of the reading.

Her expression grew grave, indicating to the elderly priest that the young man was indeed running a fever and that it was not a good sign.

It was obviously an indication of infection, a complication that they could do without.

Father Paddy observed the gentleness and tenderness with which Mackenzie Jarvis worked, concern and anxiety etched into her face, along with the concentration he was used to seeing there whenever she worked on a patient, marvelling at her grace and economy of movement, as she worked in the cramped cockpit.

He had watched her work many times before, had seen the compassion, frustration, puzzlement and often the grief and agony in her expression, whenever she faced something new or unusual.

She was always quiet, thoughtful, patient and sensitive, careful and considerate, but as he observed her now, listening to the young man's chest and heart through her stethoscope, and then taking his blood pressure, Father Paddy could not help thinking that he was seeing something different.

Outwardly, she appeared to be her usual calm, poised, professional self, but there was a hint of fear and desperation in her unusual green eyes, a tremor in her fingers whenever she had to reach out and touch the young man, and he could only guess at what was going on inside her head at that moment.

There was one thing that was blatantly obvious to the elderly priest.

The young man had been more to her than the passing acquaintance she had indicated, much more.

That notion piqued his curiosity, for in all the years he had known her, Mackenzie Jarvis had never once alluded to any kind of personal relationship in her past.

Indeed, whenever he had broached the subject, she had always quickly brushed him off with some nonsense about no-one ever having shown any interest in her, and finished off by saying that she had always been far too busy with her education and her career for personal relationships, and he had had to take her at her word.

Now, he began to wonder.

She was hiding it quite well, but the priest knew that she was more than a little flustered and unsure of herself, and he had never seen any other patient have quite the same effect on her.

Indeed, she wasn't even this reticent when she was required to touch the Royal personage of the King of the Keoma tribe himself.

However, whatever emotional battle was raging inside her, the professional medic in her soon won over and came to the fore, and she worked quietly and diligently, ignoring his curious and speculative glances, capturing her bottom lip between her teeth and chewing on it nervously as, taking his blood pressure, she watched the mercury rise and fall on the gauge and noted the reading, continuing to frown.

They were quickly joined at the chopper by the two Sisters, Ann and Catherine and her initial examination of the unconscious pilot concluded, Dr Jarvis moved out of the way, making room, quickly installing Sister Ann in her place, to hold a pressure bandage to the young pilot's shoulder wound, hoping to stem the rate of blood loss until she could get him back to the Infirmary, instructing the nun to keep a close eye on his breathing and to let her know immediately if he seemed to be in difficulty, or if he seemed to be showing signs of coming around.

As she moved out of the cockpit and summoned Sister Catherine to follow her into the engineering compartment, Dr Mackenzie Jarvis was already mentally running through the treatment that Hawke would require, having chastised herself sternly for her childish reluctance to touch him.

_**He was a man, just like any other, and that was all there was to it. **_

So why was her heart beating so hard and so fast?

Why were her hands shaking and her stomach tying its self in knots?

It had been nearly fifteen years since she had last laid eyes on him, for crying out loud! She shouldn't still feel this way.

She drew in a long, calming breath and fell back on her old tried and trusted method of getting her thoughts and her feelings under control, calling up to mind all the things her patient would need when she got him back to the Infirmary.

Antibiotics for sure, to fight any infection in his shoulder, and the cause of the fever he was running, fluids to re-hydrate him, and blood to replace what he had already lost, and would continue to lose until she had him in to surgery and could tie off the artery, chewing on her bottom lip, nervously, as she tried not to let her companions see just how concerned she was about the young pilot and his mentor.

They were going to need a lot of blood, and she didn't know if they had enough.

The Infirmary did not have the facilities to store vast quantities, but they did have a small stock of O negative in the blood bank, a small specially constructed refrigerated safe, which she routinely restocked with fresh supplies donated by herself and some of the Sisters and which she kept for emergency surgical procedures.

However, both men required surgery, and Hawke was going to need a lot more blood than Santini, if she was right about that shoulder wound.

Sister Eve would no doubt have a blood drive, asking for volunteers to donate, and the Sisters would all respond positively, as they always did, glad to be of assistance in an emergency, but Mackenzie Jarvis didn't know if they would be able to draw enough, and process it quickly enough in their small lab, with their limited equipment and resources, to be of any help to Stringfellow Hawke.

A shiver suddenly ran down her spine that had nothing to do with her fears for the life of the young pilot.

Dammit, why did even thinking his name make her knees turn to jelly!

This was ridiculous.

She had to pull herself together, get a grip on herself.

Hawke needed the calm, level headed professional doctor who was Mackenzie Jarvis, not the shy, awkward, self doubting, clumsy, gauche teenager he had last seen, and she would need to be at her best, because he deserved that, and if she wasn't, if she faltered, she would be faced with the very real possibility of having to deal with the one thing that she had truly dreaded.

Watching the man that she loved, die.

Powerless to do anything to stop it.

That would _**not**_ happen.

It was simply not an option.

She would move heaven and earth to ensure that Stringfellow Hawke did not die, that he rose from his hospital bed and flew off back to wherever the hell it was he had come from, and out of her life once more.

She would fight until her last breath to make sure that he survived, for while he was still alive, while he still walked the earth, she had a reason to go on believing that everything that she had done since that fateful night on a Californian beach fifteen years before, had been right, had been justified, for the best.

Getting hold of her errant thoughts, Mackenzie Jarvis turned her thoughts away from the past, fixing them instead on doing a quick mental inventory of all the things she was going to need, as she moved closer toward where Dominic Santini lay slumped over a control panel, and found herself coming up short, for they were all the things she knew to be in short supply.

_**Damn.**_

_**Great timing all around!**_

Oh well, it looked as if she and the Sisters were going to have to get creative, again!

And she was definitely going to have to make the Nairobi trip, once Hawke and Santini were patched up and stable, and suddenly the prospect of a night or two away from the Mission wasn't quite so distasteful.

Maybe it wouldn't be such a bad thing if she was thousands of miles away, in another country, when Stringfellow Hawke regained consciousness.

Better, for both of them.

The past was just that, and better left alone, but she suspected that Stringfellow Hawke was not the kind of man to walk away from anything easily.

Fighting the desperate need to cast one last glance back over her shoulder at Hawke, Mackenzie Jarvis turned her attention to Dominic Santini now, telling herself that she had done all that she possibly could for the younger man, and that he was in good hands, for now, and that his old friend Dom needed her help just as badly right now.

She was grateful to Sister Catherine for her help in tending Dominic Santini, despite the cramped conditions in which they found themselves, the Sister helping her to gently move the heavier man as she repeated the process of taking temperature, pulse and blood pressure, and listening to his heart and chest, confirming that the wound was indeed a through and through gunshot, and from the restricted breath sounds she could hear, that the bullet had indeed just grazed the lung.

She again installed Sister Catherine to apply dressings to Santini's wounds, while she went back to check on the African man, making certain that he was indeed dead, and trying to work out what his condition had been before he had been shot in the back, left side, the bullet having passed straight through him, and also noting signs of ill treatment, possibly torture, an extended period of malnutrition and fever.

She would have to do a full autopsy, not only to confirm the exact cause of death, but to determine his general medical condition at the time of his death.

At last, they were finally ready to move the men to the back of the truck.

Firstly, the doctor and the priest removed the dead African, because this would allow them more room to manoeuvre when releasing Dominic Santini from his seat in the rear compartment.

They carried the dead man to the back of the truck, carefully laying him widthways against the back of the driver's cab and respectfully covering him with a thin blanket, then, leaving Father Paddy to say a quick prayer for his immortal soul, Dr Jarvis returned to Dominic Santini's side, quickly ran through his observations once more and declared him stable enough to be moved.

It took all four of them to gently and very carefully extricate Dominic Santini from the rear engineering compartment, and place him length ways against the side of the flatbed truck, leaving room along side him to place Hawke.

Then, thankfully, at last, they were going back for Hawke.

Left unattended, he had again slumped in his seat, toppling slightly over to his left, and this time, without pause or hesitation, Mackenzie Jarvis clambered in to the seat beside him, positioning herself so that she could take the weight of his upper body, as they eased the unconscious younger man out toward where Father Paddy and the two Sisters were waiting to lift out his legs and take the rest of his weight as they carried him quickly to the back of the truck and laid him down beside his companion, Dominic Santini.

Breathless and sweating heavily, Mackenzie Jarvis gathered up her medical equipment and stuffed it all back in to the battered old black medical bag that had been her only faithful and constant companion all these years and hurried out of the chopper's cockpit, pausing only long enough to ensure that both doors were secured, before heading back to the parked flatbed truck, needing to check on Hawke's condition now that he had been moved.

What she found made her stomach churn and her heart lurch in her chest.

His blood pressure had dropped, his temperature had risen by another degree, and his breathing was getting very shallow and labored. His colour wasn't good and there was still a lot of blood leaking out around the edges of the pressure bandage on his shoulder, and with her heart in her mouth, Mackenzie Jarvis knew that he was deteriorating quickly and they did not have any time to lose, or there was a real chance that she could lose him.

"What about that monster?" Father Paddy indicated to the sleek, beautiful black and white helicopter as he came up beside her, sweating and breathing hard too after their recent exertions, noting the look of horror on her face as she returned her blood pressure equipment to her bag.

He knew that she was impatient to get to work properly on her patients, but his question was reasonable, under the circumstances.

He had no idea what they all meant, but he had seen a few of the dials and instrument gauges in the cockpit, and their implication terrified him.

She was indeed a killing machine, and in the wrong hands ….

He dreaded to think.

"What about it?" she responded impatiently, obviously distracted then finally looked up from her bag and noted the look of concern on his dear face.

"I hardly think the Keoma will try to steal it …."

Her voice trailed away as she saw the expression on his face change to one of disbelief at her innocence and naivety and suddenly she could not suppress a smile.

He had a point.

They would probably strip it bare, once they had overcome their fear of getting close to it, but she really couldn't see that there was much that she could do about it right now.

She had other more pressing matters to concern herself with.

"I don't suppose you could fly it?"

"No, Father," she sighed softly. "Absolutely, categorically, no. Even if I were so inclined, and felt comfortable enough and confident enough to climb into the right seat, somehow I don't think our friends here would be very happy about it."

She blotted the perspiration gathering on her brow with the back of her hand now, and pushed a stray tendril of her hair back behind her ear.

"Besides," she glanced back to where the majestic helicopter sat, silent and still, rotors bobbing gently in the slight desert breeze. "This is not just your ordinary, run of the mill chopper, Father."

She had seen some of the control panels and consoles in the cockpit, and in the engineering section in front of and surrounding Dominic Santini, including panels that were clearly marked with words like Cannon, Chain Guns, and Missile Command Systems, and knew that because of inexperience and unfamiliarity with the controls, she could quite easily, inadvertently blow them all to kingdom come by pressing the wrong button.

It also seemed reasonable to her to assume that a machine like this, so extraordinary, and quite possibly unique, would be well protected, probably fitted with some kind of anti-tampering device, which was probably hooked up to some self destruct mechanism, to ensure that it did not fall into the wrong hands.

"We all might get more than we bargained for."

"I'll say!" he rolled his eyes heavenward in exasperation, and she realised that he too had seen the controls and realised their significance. "All the more reason not to leave it out in the open, wouldn't you say?"

Again, he had a point.

But, again, she had other more important matters to attend to.

"Father, Hawke and Santini are my main priority right now. We'll figure something out later. Right now I need to get these men to the Infirmary, stat!"

"Then go, child, and I'll wait here until Sister Eve can send some boys out to help me to haul the machine back to the Mission," he offered.

"Like hell! Now who's crazy? You'll do no such thing, Father," she chastised sternly. "Aside from the fact that you'll give yourself a hernia, after his little shenanigans back there, it could take Sister Eve quite some time to persuade the King to let us borrow some of his warriors, and to reassure him that they won't get eaten by this monster, if they poke their noses out of their huts," she reminded impatiently.

"She'll just have to take care of herself, for now, and we'll just have to hope for the best, Father," she paused to take a breath and seek inspiration.

"Look, when I'm done making my patients comfortable and stable, maybe we could come back out here. I think I could just about manage to steer her, if you would drive the truck? We could attach a rope and tow her, slowly, back to the barn, where the worst that could happen would be that her being there would put the hens off their laying for a day or two," she suggested helpfully.

"Well, I suppose it will have to do."

"Amen," she let out a gentle sigh then walked around him, watching as he secured the tailgate of the truck before pulling open the driver's door.

"C'mon Father, let's get moving. It's too hot to be standing around shooting the breeze, and I've still got a lot of work ahead of me."


	3. Chapter 3

_REUNION is an original story, inspired by the U.S. T.V. series AIRWOLF._

_Copyright refers to the author of this original material, and is not meant to supersede any copyrights held by Donald P Bellisario or any other persons or corporations holding rights to the television series AIRWOLF and its characters._

Chapter Three

The journey back to the Mission took a little under ten minutes, and as soon as the doctor pulled the ancient flatbed truck in through the courtyard, there was a flurry of activity, and as she brought the vehicle to a halt outside the Infirmary, Dr Jarvis spotted the stately Sister Eve hurrying toward them.

Sister Eve was the Religious community's leader, their Sister Superior, but she was also the most senior and experienced nurse Dr Jarvis had at her disposal. She had once had a life outside the Church, of which she spoke little, but when she did, Mackenzie Jarvis had recognised her story as mirroring her own, to a degree. She too had spent many years educating her self and training and working in big city hospitals, and there wasn't much that she hadn't seen a thousand times over.

Mackenzie Jarvis knew that she was going to need that wealth of experience now, as well as Eve's constant calming influence.

As Mackenzie Jarvis slid out of the driver's seat of the truck, she was pleased to see the one other person that she would need to rely on in the operating room, following hot on Sister Eve's heels.

Sister Elizabeth, a tall, slender white woman originally from Southern Italy, had joined the Mission just short of a year ago, after a weary Mackenzie Jarvis, on the verge of physical exhaustion and a nervous breakdown, had finally gotten through to the Cardinal, after months of insisting that she could only do so much and that if the Mission Infirmary was to be able to deal effectively with all kinds of surgery, elective or emergency, she needed someone qualified, and half way competent in anaesthesiology, explaining that it was just too much to expect her to continue to cope alone, to have to divide her attention between keeping the patient stable under anaesthetic and wielding the knife too.

It had taken a while, but her own poor health and morale had finally convinced the Cardinal of the necessity of agreeing to her demand, and he had instigated a recruitment drive around the world, inviting those Sisters within the community who had joined after having first experienced life in the world beyond the cloisters, as qualified doctors of medicine and who were now interested in gaining experience in a new speciality, to come forward.

He had initiated a training programme to enable the volunteers to do a brief refresher course and to get their new qualification more quickly and Sister Elizabeth had graduated at the top of the class, which in turn had earned her a posting to the Mission in The Badlands of Zarundi.

Although she talked little about herself, for it was discouraged within the Church, in time, when she had grown a little more comfortable and confident in the doctor, after they had worked together long into many a nightshift, Mackenzie Jarvis had discovered that in her previous life, Sister Elizabeth had been a paediatric surgeon and it had not been a major leap for her to change specialities, for she had already had a good basic knowledge of anaesthesiology, thus she had been a prime candidate for the fast track training programme.

Sister Elizabeth had proved invaluable, diligent, dedicated and devout, never once voicing any complaint that even though she was just as qualified, and probably even more experienced, as Dr Mackenzie Jarvis, herself, hers was only a supportive role, the Church not permitting her to use her title of doctor, or to effectively practice medicine, unable to involve herself in anything more than nursing the patients that populated the Infirmary and the clinics, because she had turned her back on that way of life and had committed herself to a life of humility, servitude and obedience.

She was only allowed to come into her own when Mackenzie Jarvis required someone to administer anaesthetics in surgery, however, despite the fact that Mackenzie Jarvis was aware of the rules about Sister Elizabeth not being able to actually practice medicine, she often conferred with her over a diagnosis, grateful for any support when weariness and self doubt clouded her judgement.

On these occasions, the wise Sister Eve turned a blind eye, knowing that there was no harm in it, and Mackenzie Jarvis was grateful to her too, because often the burden of what they faced here daily tested her physically, emotionally and psychologically and it was sometimes good to know that she was doing a good job and that she had the support of her colleagues.

Now, Mackenzie Jarvis was not surprised to see Sister Elizabeth hastening after Sister Eve.

"Doctor," Sister Eve greeted her cordially, in a soft voice, her big brown eyes filled with concern as her gaze fell upon the three men lying in the back of the flatbed truck. "What do we have?"

Mackenzie Jarvis quickly opened up the tailgate, just as Father Paddy returned, bringing with him several Sisters from the Infirmary, bearing stretchers, and she blessed him with a gentle smile of gratitude for his quick thinking.

"One fatality," she indicated to the body covered with a thin blanket lying parallel to the driver's cab and Sister Eve nodded very slightly. They could do nothing more to help that poor soul, but she would see to it that once the men they could help were taken inside, some of the Sisters took the body to the mortuary, where it would wait for the doctor to conduct a post mortem.

"This one," she now turned her attention to the live casualties, drawing Sisters Eve and Elizabeth's attention to Stringfellow Hawke first. "He has a gunshot wound, left shoulder and he is running a fever of one hundred and one. That might be an infection, or it could be Malaria, won't know for sure 'til I get some slides under a microscope, so we'd better cover both possibilities. Right now he needs antibiotics, replacement fluids and blood, stat. He also needs to be prepped for surgery as soon as possible. I think he's bleeding out from an artery, so be very careful how you move him, ladies. Hang a bag of fluids, give him IV Penicillin and get a unit of O Negative into him as quickly as you can then give him anti Malarial's and get him straight in to theatre."

No sooner had she finished speaking than strong, capable, eager hands were gently lifting the insensate Stringfellow Hawke and carefully transferring him from the back of the truck and positioning him on to one of the stretchers.

"Careful how you go, ladies, and mind you don't drop him!" Father Paddy boomed. "He's an old friend of Dr Jarvis," he gave the nuns a conspiratorial wink as they lifted the stretcher and took its weight.

Father Paddy smiled, despite the cool scowl Mackenzie Jarvis threw at him, and happily trotted off ahead of the stretcher party, to make sure that there were no obstacles in their way.

Beside her, Mackenzie Jarvis was aware of Sister Eve and Sister Elizabeth exchanging curious glances, and she cleared her throat loudly to show her disapproval and to get their attention once more, trying to disguise the fact that she couldn't take her eyes off the young pilot as the Sister's carried him inside the Infirmary.

"Sisters, this one," she reluctantly dragged her eyes away from the stretcher party and turned her attention to Dominic Santini now. "He has a gunshot wound to his mid thorax, bullet looks to have gone straight through, but it's possible that it nicked his lung on the way through. I won't know for sure until I have him on the table," she explained, pulling herself together quickly, knowing that she had to concentrate on the tasks ahead.

"He's in slightly better shape than the other man, although he has some fresh cuts and bruises that indicate he has had a recent heavy fall, so again, hang a bag of fluids, push Penicillin IV and give him a unit of O Negative, and some morphine, if he regains consciousness and is in pain. Keep him under ten minute observations, make sure you watch his temperature and blood pressure, and if he starts to show signs of respiratory distress, let me know stat. Just keep him stable until I'm done with the shoulder wound."

"Very well, doctor."

Again, strong, capable hands helped her to lift Dominic Santini and place him carefully on to the other stretcher, and this time, she walked with them as they carried the patient into the Infirmary.

"I know we're low on blood," Mackenzie Jarvis caught Sister Eve's eye as they carefully climbed the two steps up to the front entrance of the Infirmary and once inside out of the sun, hurried down the central corridor toward the examination area at the rear of the building, the cool air wafting down from the ceiling fans sending a shiver down her spine.

"I'm on to it, doctor. I got Sister Evangeline to set up the equipment as soon as you left, and she's already gotten started on drawing blood."

"Good, thank you," she smiled softly at Sister Eve. They really were a good team.

"I'll need the patient's names, doctor," the Sister Superior gave the doctor an apologetic look now. "Father Paddy intimated …." Her voice trailed away then, as she saw the frosty look on the other woman's face.

"I know what he intimated, Sister, I was there," Dr Jarvis sighed deeply, but quickly quashed her irritation, knowing that she was directing it at the wrong person. "The shoulder wound is Stringfellow Hawke, and this gentleman is Dominic Santini," she told Sister Eve in cool tones, and did not elaborate as she watched the Sisters carry the stretcher into the examination room and place him in a cubicle beside Stringfellow Hawke, and satisfied that everything seemed to be under control, she turned and strode off down the corridor to the sterile room they used for changing into surgical clothes and scrubbing up before surgical procedures, aware even as she went of the speculative looks being exchanged between Sisters Eve and Elizabeth, behind her.

The two older women were indeed exchanging looks that clearly said 'Now I wonder what that is all about?' and 'You know better than to ask', before they separated and went to attend to their various duties, before joining Mackenzie Jarvis in the scrub room.

Mackenzie Jarvis softly closed the door of the sterile room behind her, and leaned heavily against it, her legs suddenly shaking and nausea biting in the back of her throat.

She closed her eyes and dragged in several long, deep, calming breaths before forcing her legs to carry her deeper into the room, as she pulled off her thin white cotton blouse, damp with perspiration now, and the thin linen khaki pants that she favoured, and after throwing cold water over her overheated face and patting it dry with a rough paper towel, pulled off her sturdy suede walking boots and thin cotton ankle socks, then pulled on the thin cotton surgical greens and the short white plastic boots that were standard operating room uniform, then stretching the elasticated mop cap affair over her hair, she entered the separate scrub room and spent several minutes at the sink, meticulously washing her hands, scrubbing her fingernails and forearms with antibacterial soap, but at she rinsed the soap off her hands, under the fast running water, she could not help but notice that they were shaking.

Dammit, she had to get a hold of herself.

She was about to attempt a very delicate procedure. She needed rock steady hands.

She drew in several more deep breaths, letting them out slowly.

It was shock that was all.

Shock, at seeing him again after all this time.

Shock, at the severity of his injury and that of Dominic Santini too.

Shock, yes.

That's all it was.

She could do this.

She _**had**_ to do it.

There was no-one else who could perform this kind of surgery.

She wouldn't know how bad the damage was until she opened up the shoulder and had a good look around inside, but it was possible that the only way to repair the artery would be to graft in a new section, taking a small section from a vein in his groin area and join the two ends together.

Then the only other thing she would need to worry about was the possibility of nerve damage, the possible loss of sensation to his arm and hand, but she would cross that bridge when she came to it.

It wasn't like it was the first time that she had had to do this procedure, although it had been a while.

She knew that it was well within her capabilities.

She just couldn't help wishing that she would be performing it on an absolute stranger, instead of someone she was acquainted with.

There was something to be said for anonymity.

As she continued to run her hands under the tap, she mentally began to name all the bones in the human body, and was beginning to feel the calming effect of the ritual she had learned in college, when she felt fear, insecurity, self doubt and panic threatening to overwhelm her, by the time she got to the phalanges, the small bones in the fingers.

Presently, Sisters Eve and Elizabeth joined her, advising her that her first patient was waiting for her in the operating room, that her orders had been carried out and that his condition was stable, and then all three of them pulled on fresh gowns and plastic surgical gloves, before entering the operating room, where Stringfellow Hawke, draped in a thin linen cloth lay face down, on the table, an oxygen mask over his nose and mouth, a bag of clear fluids and the unit of blood she had ordered hanging from a drip stand beside him, but he was still recognisable to Mackenzie Jarvis, until Sister Elizabeth took up her position behind his head and Sister Mary pulled up the drape cloth to conceal his face, while Sister Elizabeth began the process of administering the anaesthetic.

Mackenzie Jarvis waited patiently while Sister Eve tied a mask around her nose and mouth and then signed the medication chart that had been filled in for her, checking the dose of each medication that had been administered according to her orders, and wrote him up for pain medication for after the procedure, and then, at last, Sister Elizabeth was indicating that she could begin.

Flexing her fingers inside the surgical gloves, Mackenzie Jarvis took up her scalpel and pulling back the drape that covered Hawke's sun bronzed, muscular back, began her initial investigation of his shoulder wound.

Some considerable time later, when she was satisfied at last that she could do no more, Mackenzie Jarvis stepped back from the operating table and watched as Sister Elizabeth set about the process of bringing the patient out of the anaesthetic, watching anxiously for any sign of a problem, but all went smoothly, and soon she was walking Hawke out of the operating room, and watching as the Sisters Clare, Angela and Elizabeth continued on to escort him through to the recovery room, where the doctor knew, Sister Louisa and her small team would take over responsibility for monitoring Hawke's condition.

However, she was far from done, and she knew that she would mentally have to relinquish her need to watch over Hawke, at least for a little while, so that she could devote as much care and attention to Dominic Santini.

Firstly though, she needed a breath of fresh air and to stretch her aching back and shoulder muscles, a minute to compose her self once more, and then she needed to strip off these bloodied scrubs and take a quick shower, before going through the whole routine of dressing in fresh surgical greens and scrubbing up ready for the next procedure.

It was times like this that she wished that she smoked, because she definitely felt the need for something to soothe her nerves, however, the fresh air would have to suffice, a couple of long, deep, calming breaths, and then she would have to make a start on patching up Dominic Santini.

They were very fortunate to have two fully functioning Operating Rooms, and as she made her way back to the locker room, Mackenzie Jarvis could see the second surgical team setting up ready to receive the unconscious Dominic Santini, adjusting the overhead lights, the height of the table, and laying out the various surgical instruments and drugs that might be required during the procedure, under the watchful eye of Sister Eve.

"How did it go?" Father Paddy Callaghan was waiting for her as she stepped out into the corridor outside the operating rooms, an anxious expression on his face.

She wondered which of them he was more concerned over, the doctor or the patient.

"As well as can be expected, Father," this was her tried and trusted response in such a situation, the words spoken automatically, and then she drew in a deep breath as she saw the look on his face. "He made it out of theatre in one piece," she grinned at him now, running her fingers through her hair absently. "So the rest is up to him. I've given him a fighting chance, and if he is one half of the man I remember, he'll soon be up and about, no doubt trying to run the place … But I won't object if you would care to have a word with your boss, on his behalf."

"And his friend?" the priest ignored her irreverent remark.

"I didn't get to him yet. I just wanted a breath of fresh air before I went back in there."

"You need more than a breath of fresh air, child. You're as pale as a ghost, and you must be exhausted. I know for a fact that you worked until well past midnight last night, then you were up with the sun, and I'll bet you haven't eaten anything worth a damn all day," he chided.

"I'm fine, Father. I'll eat and sleep when my work is done and my patients are out of danger."

There was a note of defiance in her voice now, and the set of her shoulders was a stance that was all too familiar to him. He recognised it as a show of her determination and sheer bloody mindedness.

"You won't be much use to either of them if you faint from hunger and exhaustion, doctor," he reminded her gently.

"I've never fainted in my life, Father, and I don't plan on starting now," again her chin came up in defiance.

"At least have a sup or two of water, child, please," he insisted.

"Ok," she acquiesced, knowing that that would be sensible, especially after all that exertion out there in the noon day sun, and he was right, she hadn't stopped since, her own needs the least of her worries.

"Ok," she smiled wearily at him now, and then started walking down the corridor toward the rear exit.

"I'll bring you a glass directly," the elderly priest offered. "And then you and I can have a word with the Boss, together."

Without turning around, Mackenzie Jarvis acknowledged him with the slight wave of her hand, before pulling open the door and disappearing outside.

A few minutes later, Father Paddy returned with a small glass of iced water, the melting cubes tinkling gently as they collided with the sides of the glass.

"I hope you left enough for our patient, he needs as many ice packs as we can make," Mackenzie grinned as she accepted the glass from him and watched as the elderly priest sighed heavily in despair at her sense of humour.

"How long do you think you will be in surgery, with Mr Santini?" Father Paddy asked, watching with satisfaction as she sipped the water in between sucking in deep breaths of the hot, dry air, but she could sense that he had a reason for asking, other than his concerns for their patient's well being.

She gave a vague shrug.

"That depends on what I find when I get inside."

"I can't stop thinking about that monster machine out there …."

His voice trailed away as he cast his gaze out toward the desert and where they had been forced to leave the helicopter, and now she understood.

"We need to get it back here and out of sight before nightfall," he told her anxiously, and Mackenzie Jarvis knew that he was right.

The longer it was left out there, to the ravages of the desert and the curious, be that the natives, or the local wildlife, the more chance that some disaster would befall it.

"I've been thinking about what you said, about going back and towing it back to the barn with the flatbed. I think that is the best idea. It's been a while since I had to drive, but I think I can get us there and back in one piece, however I don't want to be pithering about in the dark."

"_**You think**_?" she smiled ruefully at him now. "_**Pithering**_?" she arched an eyebrow cryptically now.

She knew that his eyesight wasn't the best, add that to his lousy driving skills and she knew that it could well be a recipe for disaster, however, there wasn't anyone else who could drive the flatbed, and she certainly wasn't about to let anyone else inside that magnificent helicopter.

She was already having nightmares about having to go inside and touch any of the controls herself, and it must have shown on her face.

"Think you can handle that monster?" He countered sharply.

"I haven't a clue, Father, but I guess we'll find out soon enough," and with that she finished the water, smiling gratefully to him as she handed him the glass back, and then turned to push the door open. "Maybe that's something else you'd better have a word with the boss about. Pray that I'm not too long working on Mr Santini and ask him to make that helicopter's controls easy to understand, after all, I wouldn't want to accidentally blow us all to hell now, would I?"

"Bah!" the elderly priest threw back his head and glared up at the heavens and she knew that he was silently offering up a silent apology for her flippancy, and a heart felt prayer that they would be able to retrieve the helicopter and store it safely out of harm's way without any further mishaps, and she silently joined him in that prayer, as she pushed the door open wider and stepped inside, drawing in a deep breath as she began to mentally prepare herself for the next task.


	4. Chapter 4

_REUNION is an original story, inspired by the U.S. T.V. series AIRWOLF._

_Copyright refers to the author of this original material, and is not meant to supersede any copyrights held by Donald P Bellisario or any other persons or corporations holding rights to the television series AIRWOLF and its characters._

Chapter Four

**Africa.**

**The Sisters of Charity Mission, The Badlands.**

**The Kingdom Of Zarundi. **

**Sunday – Sunset.**

The sunset was spectacular, as always, the sky a riot of colour on the western horizon.

It never failed to move Mackenzie Jarvis, even though this evening, she did not have the luxury of being able to really enjoy it.

Time was not on their side, she knew, for soon the last rays of the sun would be gone, and complete darkness would quickly swallow them.

They needed to get this dratted helicopter back to the Mission and safely out of sight before that happened.

They were almost ready to go.

Almost.

Mackenzie Jarvis drew in a deep, cleansing breath of the now cooling desert air and tried not to show Father Paddy just how frustrated and impatient she was feeling, as she again watched the elderly priest trying to find first gear on the flatbed, grinding the gear lever up and down the gearbox, the clutch screaming and the engine whining as he stomped on the gas pedal.

After she had finished working on Dominic Santini, the procedure not taking as long as she had feared for when she had finally gotten him onto the table and opened him up, she had found only the slightest nick to the bottom lobe of his lung, quickly repaired, and the rest was just soft tissue damage that required tidying up, before closing him up again, Mackenzie Jarvis had taken a quick shower and changed into a fresh baby blue linen blouse, deeper marine blue sweater, denim blue jeans and sneakers, because the night air would be considerably cooler, and then she had driven Father Paddy and herself out to where the helicopter still sat, quietly, looking beautiful and quite harmless in the slowly dimming twilight.

Together they had worked on rigging up a good, strong rope to both sets of rear landing wheels and securing both ends to the tow bar on the back of the flatbed, and then Mackenzie had decided that she had better make sure that Father Paddy knew what he was doing behind the wheel of the truck.

She had run through the basics with him again, refreshing his memory, although it had been plain to see that he had been put out with her slow and deliberate demonstration, eager to get on and get going because the light was fading fast.

All he had to do was engage the clutch, select first gear, find the biting point by getting enough revs, release the handbrake, and then slowly lift the clutch or depress the clutch, to make the truck go faster or slower, and maintain a nice slow, steady five or ten miles an hour, just enough to keep the chopper rolling forward slowly and smoothly behind him, while Mackenzie used the stick to steer and guide her back to the Mission.

At this rate, they would still be here next week!

_**Find a gear Father, any gear, dammit there's a box full of 'em ….**_

He couldn't seem to get the hang of co-ordinating his feet, first too much clutch then not enough, stalling the truck out or over revving. He was worse than a first timer, and Mackenzie Jarvis didn't need this.

She was bone weary, worried about Stringfellow Hawke's fever, which had not improved and she had a splitting headache, brought about mostly, she knew, by dehydration and lack of food.

She still had work to do when they got back to the Mission, determined to begin working on the African man's post mortem, because she was starting to suspect that whatever fever he had been carrying was what was ailing Hawke too, and if she found out what it was, specifically, then she could treat it more effectively, and possibly prevent an epidemic, if it turned out to be highly contagious.

"Gently Father, please," she encouraged as he again crunched the gears, knowing that if he persisted, he was going to wreck the transmission altogether, and that would mean that the truck would be off the road until or even _**if**_ she could organise new parts for it.

"Clutch down, that's right," she spoke softly now, knowing that if she lost her temper with him, it would only fluster him more. "Now, revs Father. Good, good, now gently lift the clutch. There!" she heard the change in the tone of the engine immediately. "That's it, now, very gently, gently …." She coaxed.

"By Jove! I think I've got it!" Father Paddy declared with a broad, triumphant grin.

"Terrific, don't let it go to your head, Father," she reached out and patted the hand he had covering the gear lever. "Now then, let's get this show on the road, before we lose the light completely."

Mackenzie Jarvis opened the passenger door and slid out of the truck, shivering as the rapidly cooling night air caressed her clammy skin, and walked swiftly back toward the magnificent helicopter, with her fingers crossed in front of her stomach as she went, finding herself hoping that Father Paddy would not get over ambitious on his own, and that steering the helicopter would prove to be as simple as just gently guiding the stick from right to left, and required nothing more from her than that.

She was feeling a mixture of emotions right now, trepidation at the thought of meddling with something that was not hers, and that she did not understand, something powerful and dangerous, and way beyond anything she had ever handled before, anxiety that if she didn't hurry back to the Infirmary, something dreadful would happen to Hawke, and if she wasn't there, he might die, and finally an undeniable thrill at the thought of actually sitting inside this marvellous machine, to be sitting in the seat that had so recently been occupied by Stringfellow Hawke.

At least these were the things she was allowing herself to feel at this moment.

There was a lot of other stuff going on inside her, all revolving around the sudden reappearance of Stringfellow Hawke in her life, but she couldn't deal with that right now, and had no desire to succumb to any of it for fear of losing herself.

The whole point was that she had never _**really**_ dealt with it.

She hadn't exactly run away, but she hadn't faced up to it, faced up to him either, and her conscience had always bothered her about that.

She reached the right side of the magnificent helicopter now and finding the door release mechanism, again squashed all unwanted thoughts of the young man who had made such an impression on her all those years ago, it had altered the course of her life.

Slipping her fingers inside, she depressed the lever and the door immediately popped open, with a gentle hiss, and then taking a deep breath to calm her nerves, she was climbing inside and settling herself in the pilot's seat, thinking to herself just how ironic it was that she should find herself here, in Hawke's helicopter, knowing just how he felt every time he took his place at the controls, and that she had only gotten interested in learning to fly herself because of her association with Dominic Santini, Santini Air and Stringfellow Hawke.

She found the seat to be very comfortable, ergonomically designed, she suspected, to make the rigours of flight easier for the pilot to bear.

She reached out tentatively with shaking fingers and lightly grasped the flight control stick, gently moving it, testing to see just how much pressure she needed to apply and was pleasantly surprised to find that it was light and moved freely, requiring almost no strength at all to move, at least down here on the ground, stationary.

Up there, in flight, with all those aerodynamic forces at work, she guessed that it would be a different matter. Fortunately, she would never need to find out for herself, for right here on the ground was exactly where she planned to keep this magnificent beast.

Although the chopper's engines were switched off, she must have reserve battery power supplying power to the instruments in the back, for there was an eerie green glow emanating from the engineering section, and there was an undeniable pulse of barely controlled power throbbing all around her, making the hairs on the back of her neck stand on end and a shiver to run down her spine, reminding Mackenzie Jarvis once more of a sleeping, mythological beast, apparently dormant, just waiting to rouse and burst into life.

Night was falling fast now, and the headlights of the flatbed were the only illumination for the way ahead for Father Paddy, and Mackenzie found herself wishing that she could find some kind of lighting on the helicopter, to illuminate their way home and improve visibility, for Father Paddy, but that would require her to tinker with some of the switches, and she had no desire to touch anything except the stick and the brake.

She peered out of the front windshield now and saw Father Paddy waving at her impatiently, indicating that he was ready, if she was. She waved back, offering the pilot's universal signal that everything was ok, a thumbs up, and then without realising it, she held her breath as she watched the brake lights on the truck go dark, and the elderly vehicle began to move slowly forward, rocking jerkily, to begin with, until the elderly priest got the hang of clutch control once more, and then she felt the majestic, graceful helicopter begin to move forward too.

It was a painfully slow journey, lots of stopping and starting because Father Paddy kept forgetting which foot to use and his clutch control became jerky and erratic, and after almost half an hour of stuttering along, consumed by darkness, Mackenzie Jarvis was promising herself that the next time she went to Nairobi, she would invest in a new vehicle that had an automatic transmission, and then she would take the time and the trouble to teach every damned one of the residents of the Mission to drive it, like it or not, so that if there was ever an emergency, and she wasn't able to drive herself, someone else would be confident and capable of doing it instead.

So what if she had to spend another couple of thousand getting what she wanted and transporting it out here? It would be worth every penny to have some of the pressure taken off her shoulders, and she couldn't help wondering why she hadn't thought of it before.

After all, it was only money.

What else would she spend it on?

She had very few personal needs and it wasn't like she was going to go broke any time soon.

Her ancestors had been plundering the African continent for almost a century, gold, diamonds, oil, coal, you name it, they had a sticky finger in every pie and over the years had amassed an indecent amount of wealth, certainly more than she could ever hope to spend in two lifetimes, and Mackenzie now saw it as her duty to plough as much of it back as she could, by providing the best medical care, education and whatever else the Keoma people might need, for the rest of her life and beyond.

She had seen to it that the indigenous peoples of Zarundi would never again go without food, water, clothing or drugs or the means with which to allow their tribes and their ancient way of life to continue and to thrive.

In all there were three branches of the Keoma tribe, spread out across the Kingdom, the Chiefs of the other two more distant branches being the King's younger brothers.

King Joami was the ultimate ruler, but because of the distances involved, his brothers had as much power and control over the day to day lives of their people as he did.

However, when it came to major decisions, they were happy to defer to him. Thus the political structure of the Kingdom was stable, each of the Chiefs having just enough power and control over their own lands and peoples to satisfy themselves and prevent power struggles, but the ultimate responsibility for all of them fell to Jaomi.

Mackenzie had also seen to it that they would always have the support that they needed to continue to teach their children the old ways, whilst also learning to survive in the modern world, with a good basic all round education, building on the friendship developed by her father with the King of the Keoma people, reassuring him that in no way would anyone interfere with the ancient ways and beliefs that had enabled the tribe to function and survive, but that should they fall upon hard times, help would always be at hand.

King Joami was a proud and noble man, head of an ancient and very independent people who preferred to follow the old ways as much as they could, but he was also wise beyond his years, acknowledging that the world around him had changed immeasurably, even since he was a boy, and that he needed to embrace that change if they were to survive, bravely agreeing to send his sons and nephews away to England to be educated in the modern world so that they would better understand where they had come from and how their people survived, and perhaps bring back with them the knowledge of how to ensure that their tribe continued into the next century and beyond.

He was also wise enough to embrace the assistance offered by his old friend's daughter, the white doctor, if it meant relieving his people's suffering and prevented the tribe from extinction.

When her parents had died, when she had been but nine years old, Mackenzie Jarvis had had only one surviving relative, her mother's youngest brother, but he had not been able to take her in because he had been ordained as a Catholic Priest.

Her uncle, Father James MacDonald, had arranged with the family's legal advisors, as her legal guardian, to set up a trust fund for Mackenzie that would see to her material needs and her education as she grew up, and then he had made a contract with the Catholic Church, that in exchange for a considerable donation to their coffers, and then regular contributions over the years, the Church would take her in and provide her with a home and education, and while she remained in their care, her trust fund would maintain a small Mission and hospital based at her family home in the Zarundi Badlands, to where she would one day return, if she so wished.

Thus her life had been mapped out for her.

She had spent the rest of her childhood passing through one children's home or orphanage to another, raised and educated by nuns, always with one goal in her mind, to return to her magical African Kingdom and take care of those less fortunate than herself.

As she had gotten older, the dream had solidified, and she had been encouraged to accept that she would only find peace, happiness and solace and the true purpose of her life, by devoting that life to God and his service, taking her place in one of the nursing orders of Sisters and committing herself, gladly and joyfully, to a life of obedience and servitude.

It was, everyone told her, for the best, the only reasonable thing to expect of her self, and she had grown up believing that it was the only way that she would ever be able function in the world.

She owed the Church so much.

The Church was mother and father, giving her a place to live and a good, solid education.

She had been fortunate to have the blessings of her Uncle James, the priest, whom, as he advanced up through the ranks within the Church, saw to it that she spent a little time with him each year, wherever he was posted, and she had been privileged to have been placed in various Mother houses, one in Rome, another branch in London, and finally, in Van Nuys, Los Angeles, when having advanced to the lofty heights of Cardinal, her uncle had decided that she would benefit from spending some time in the American education system, as he himself had in his youth, and had arranged for her to attend High School in Los Angeles under the watchful eye of an old friend of his, Mother Patrice, with a view to entering college to take a nursing qualification, after she had graduated.

Over the years, Mackenzie had learned one lesson and learned it well.

She had not been blessed with the gift of beauty and could therefore not reasonably expect any man to desire her and she had no wish to settle for the kind of empty, loveless marriage that might come from the attentions of a man desirous of her money and the power that it could bring.

She learned early on, indeed, had had it drummed into her over and over by those who were charged with caring for her physical and educational needs, that she had little to offer except love and compassion for her fellow man, and an interest in healing the sick, and that she had a great debt to repay.

No-one ever actually said it to her face, but she had been raised to believe that she had survived the accident that had killed her parents outright, because she was full of sin and wickedness, and therefore not worthy of joining them in heaven, and that she needed to atone for her sins before she could be with them again.

God, she was told, had a purpose for her.

The only reasonable course of action she could take would be to listen to Him, and devote her life to His works, allowing the Church to continue to protect her and to take care of her best interests, guiding her on the right path so that she could fulfil that purpose.

The child Mackenzie Jarvis, had had no other choice than to accept that her elders and betters knew what was best for her and had not resisted, grateful to just have a place to belong, people to take care of her day to day physical needs, if not actually show her any kind of affection, and the means to feed her insatiable thirst for knowledge and her natural curiosity about everything.

The grieving nine year old Mackenzie had made a promise to herself that from then on she would be good, do as she was told and not be any trouble to anyone, to try to make up for whatever transgression it was that had made God so angry that he had taken her parents from her, and that she would do so willingly, for it was what God wanted of her, so that she could shape her life to fulfil His purpose.

And so it was decided, and her whole life had been arranged to that end.

And then Stringfellow Hawke had thrown a spanner into the works with one simple, stolen kiss.

As the memory of that moment consumed her, Mackenzie Jarvis was immediately transported back in time to that dark, windy night on a Californian beach.

She could hear the sound of the ocean, feel the wind tugging at her hair, smell the salt on the breeze, feel once again with absolute clarity, the heady sensation of Stringfellow Hawke's warm, soft lips devouring her own, his slender, body, so lithe and firm, pressed up close to her own, his strong, sure arms entwined around her, holding her with such passion and need, such strength and without the slightest hint of hesitation or revulsion, still able to recall with heart stopping perfection, the way he had looked down into her eyes before his lips had claimed hers ….

A shiver of pleasure ran the length of her spine, and Mackenzie Jarvis felt her hand wobble slightly on the flight control stick, feeling heat and colour rising in her cheeks as she realised that she had allowed her mind to wander, albeit briefly, and again recalled with equal clarity, the shame and embarrassment that had flooded through her when the others had destroyed the peace and beauty of the moment, with their cruel and their vicious taunts, and doubt had crept back into her mind, doubt at Stringfellow's sincerity, suspicion that her initial reaction that he might be a part of some nasty new prank, creeping back into her mind, nagging away at her, undermining her new found hope and joy and love, and bringing her back to reality as effectively as if a bucket of ice cold water had been thrown over her.

One kiss.

It had been one kiss.

Simple, sweet and beautiful, everything that a girl could have wished for from her first kiss, and it had changed her whole world, changed her whole life, changed the girl Mackenzie Jarvis was, forever.

Tears suddenly began to well up in her eyes, and she squeezed them shut, briefly, telling herself to get a grip.

It had all happened a very long time ago, a life time ago, and it should not still hurt so damned much.

She had grown up.

She had moved on.

Stringfellow Hawke had moved on too.

He obviously hadn't spent all these years pining away for her!

She felt a brief pang of bitterness, and quashed it immediately.

He hadn't changed a bit, still slender, still tan and handsome, still the epitome of a Californian god, sun bronzed and healthy.

Well, ok, he had changed, maybe just a little.

Older, yes, but then again, weren't they all?

In every other way he was just as she remembered him.

Beautiful.

She was glad.

He was obviously living a full and happy life, and that was just as it should be.

Although, she could not help wondering what kind of life it was that had placed him in the line of fire for someone's bullet, and what had brought him here to Zarundi?

Before she had started work on patching up his shoulder, she had done a quick visual examination of his beautiful, tanned body, making certain that he had no other injuries, and had quickly come across another wound to his abdomen, recent, still healing, the skin clean and pink and healthy around what she could not fail to recognise as another gunshot wound.

_**Still playing the hero, Stringfellow?**_

She would not be surprised.

That was part of his nature too.

_**Still fighting other people's battles, Stringfellow?**_

She had told Father Paddy that whatever he and Dominic Santini were doing here, it was no doubt for the greater good, and she still firmly believed that.

Intrinsically, Stringfellow Hawke was a good man, by nature and nurture, the product of loving, honourable and law abiding parents, raised to their high standards of fair play and goodness, to abhor injustice and to love and defend his country unto death, and which had only been endorsed by having Dominic Santini as a role model and having his guiding hand in his upbringing in later life.

There could be no evil in Stringfellow Hawke's heart.

_**She would bet the farm on it!**_

She couldn't help wondering about his personal life.

She knew, because she had been rewarded with a brief glimpse of it for herself, that he was a man with a big heart, full of love to give to the right woman, and a man like that deserved all the love a woman could give in return.

He was still damned attractive, too!

It wouldn't be unreasonable to expect that he had a pretty wife he loved passionately, because he had been such an ardent young man, never doing anything in half measures, and they were probably the proud, doting parents of a brood of beautiful, happy, intelligent, healthy children.

Again, that too was just as it should be.

She had always felt that he was meant for that kind of life, to be a loving husband, and father to a bunch of boisterous kids, and that had been the main reason why she had turned away from him.

He would never have been able to see any of these things in his future if he had looked to her.

_**No harm, no foul.**_

_**Oh hell, he probably wouldn't even recognise her when he woke up.**_

It had been so long.

They were different people now.

She was very different.

Physically she couldn't have been any more different than the unhappy, overweight, awkward, teenager he had grown up alongside of, over shadowed by the tragedy of her parent's death and cursed with a lack of self confidence and low self esteem.

She had finally stepped out into the light and saw herself as she really was, although she still laboured under the weight of self doubt now and again.

They had each chosen their own path, followed their own hearts.

It was far too late to even be allowing her self to wonder if things might have turned out differently.

If, back then, she could somehow have faced the decision with the wisdom and experience of the woman that she was now ….

_**Don't even go there, kiddo!**_ She told herself sternly.

As far as she was concerned, the events of that evening had been totally unexpected, but they had served their purpose.

It had been a kiss, one heart stoppingly, incredibly beautiful kiss, a stolen moment of happiness, a precious gift, a fleeting glimpse into another possibility for her, but for him, who knew?

She doubted very much that it was his first kiss, and a boy like him would never have to wait very long before another willing pair of lips came along.

For him, life had obviously gone on, and she found herself praying that he was blissfully unaware of the turmoil he had created in her life with that one, sweet, simple kiss.

She had put the incident out of her mind and got on with living her life, because she had had to, chalking it up to another of life's little twists of the knife to her heart, another lesson to be learned from, a valuable lesson that had allowed her to begin to see herself with new eyes.

She had long ago accepted that Hawke had not been a party to what the others had planned, that he had been just as much a victim as she had.

She had also accepted that he had probably not planned to kiss her, but had been caught up in all the emotion of that moment, just as she had been, and had just given in to a natural desire.

An overwhelming impulse.

He could not possibly have known what it would do to her, the turmoil, heartache and upheaval it would cause her.

He could not possibly have known that she would have no idea how to handle the situation, or how to deal with the myriad of emotions that that simple kiss had wrought from her.

He could not possibly know that she would fall head over heels in love with him, nor that the very thought that she was even capable of feeling that way, that the thought that any boy, much less a boy as beautiful and popular and amazing as Stringfellow Hawke, could be moved to make such a gesture, might even be able to feel the same way about her, would terrify her.

How could he possibly have known, when _**she**_ hadn't known that it was possible to fall so quickly and so deeply in love with another human being?

It had happened in a heartbeat.

No, between heartbeats!

It had so totally overwhelmed her she had not known what to do.

Then Chip and his cronies had broken the mood and the moment with their cruelty, and reason had taken over in her mind.

She had looked at Stringfellow Hawke, his handsome young face shocked, dumbfounded, like he had been hit with a sledgehammer and the wind had been knocked out of him, his beautiful blue eyes begging her to trust him, to believe in him, to ignore the others and look at him, just at him, because the truth was there in his eyes for her to see, and she had known that he was just as much a victim of their cruelty as she was, but she had also known that the only thing that she could do to help either of them, was to simply walk away, with as much dignity as she could muster, before things got out of hand and mayhem ensued.

She had dealt with the situation in the only way she knew how.

Walked away.

It wasn't cowardly.

It was self preservation.

She was out of her depth and could only see things getting more difficult to handle, and so she had removed herself from the equation.

Everything had happened so fast, and it was so completely out of her realm of experience, she simply could not find a place to even begin to process it and handle it, and so she had walked away, wanting time to regain her equilibrium and perspective so that she could try to understand what had happened.

The look on Stringfellow Hawke's face had been precious, and it had almost been her undoing.

He thought that she hated him.

He thought that she was abandoning him.

He thought that she blamed him.

_**He**_ thought that _**she **_thought that he had betrayed her, that he found her repulsive and ugly and something to be reviled and sneered at, no better than trash ….

And not knowing what else to do without making things worse, she had let him believe those things, and walked away.

The oh so noble Mackenzie Jarvis, falling on her sword and making the ultimate sacrifice, so that Hawke could redeem his credibility and repair his friendship with Chip and the others.

The ultimate grand gesture.

_**So what had she expected?**_

That he would forsake all those years of friendship and brotherhood and spring to her defence?

That he would actually tell her what he was thinking, how he was feeling, not leave her guessing, imagining all kinds of cruel things as her mind gave her different connotations to the lyrics of that wretched cornball song that she still couldn't listen to today without wanting to curl up and die inside?

_**Will you still love me tomorrow?**_

_**Love her?**_

Love?

Well, yes, if what she had seen in those incredibly beautiful blue eyes of his could be believed.

So, dammit, why didn't he come after her?

If none of those things were true? If she had only imagined that he thought her repulsive and ugly and something to be pitied ...

Why didn't he stop her?

Why didn't he say something?

_**Do something! **_

Instead of standing there with his mouth hanging open like a fish out of water, gasping for air?

One word ….

One simple word would have been all that it would have taken, but he had stood there, rooted to the spot, so completely at a loss as to what to do, what to say him self, and the moment had slipped away, from both of them.

She had no way of knowing how he truly felt, but surely, if it had really meant as much to him as she had seen in his eyes, felt in his lips and his embrace, heard in his voice, if it had really meant as much to him as it had to her, Stringfellow Hawke would have said something, _**done**_ something, to show her, wouldn't he?

In her confusion and turmoil, Mackenzie Jarvis had seen something altogether different in Stringfellow Hawke's eyes then, that he was beginning to come to his senses and she realised that he was thinking what she herself had been thinking only a few minutes before, that he had made a dreadful mistake, given in to an overwhelming desire, in a moment of weakness, vulnerable, just as she was, but then reason had quickly overcome him and he had realised what he had done, and who she was, and instantly regretted his hastiness.

He had made a fool of himself, lost his head and over reacted.

And now he couldn't take it back.

Couldn't undo it.

It hadn't really meant anything to him at all.

_**How could it?**_

How could a boy like _**him**_ feel anything for a girl like _**her**_?

He was beautiful and intelligent, brave and kind and he had the whole world at his feet, why would he even be interested in a useless, ugly, fat lump like her?

The answer was simple.

He could not be.

Never would be.

It had just been a moment of madness, a mental aberration and now he had regained his senses, he was beginning to see what he had done and how dumb it had been.

Mackenzie Jarvis had walked away, her head held high, but deep inside, her heart had been shattering into a million tiny pieces, all the beauty and the wonderment and the joy that she had been feeling turning to ashes, and leaving a bitter taste in her mouth.


	5. Chapter 5

_REUNION is an original story, inspired by the U.S. T.V. series AIRWOLF._

_Copyright refers to the author of this original material, and is not meant to supersede any copyrights held by Donald P Bellisario or any other persons or corporations holding rights to the television series AIRWOLF and its characters._

Chapter Five

Of course it had been madness.

Utter madness, to think that he might really have any kind of genuine romantic feelings toward her.

Now, Mackenzie Jarvis drew in a long, ragged breath and expelled it slowly, feeling the hot tears coursing down her cheeks, and she briefly raised the back of her hand to swat them away.

_**Enough dammit!**_

_**No more!**_

_**It all happened a very long time ago, and you are not that girl anymore.**_

Yet, it was frightening just how quickly she could forget all the things that she had achieved in her life over the intervening years, and so easily remember just how inadequate and worthless and deeply isolated and alone the teenage Mackenzie Jarvis had been.

_**Stop it, right now.**_

She pushed the unwanted memories aside and quashed the unwelcome emotions associated with them, again raising her hand to quickly swat at her tears before returning it to quickly grip the flight control stick gently once more, forcing herself to concentrate on the small patch of ground between the front of the chopper and the rear of the flatbed, not wanting to run into the back of the truck, if the Father should suddenly put the brakes on.

Still the memories crowded in.

Yes, it had all happened a very long time ago, and she had grown up a lot since then.

And yes, she was a very different person today.

_**Look at yourself kiddo!**_

Physically she was completely different, having shed the excess weight with a strict diet and exercise regime in college, breaking all the bad habits of turning to food for comfort that the unhappy child she had been had acquired over the years.

She was stronger too, mentally and emotionally and she knew so much more about life and the world now.

And she knew herself better now too.

Boys kissed girls all the time, the world over, and it didn't always have to mean something spectacular, she reminded herself sternly now.

Often, it didn't mean anything at all once the moment was gone.

She had offered an angry, emotionally fragile young man understanding, compassion and yes, affection, and she now understood that it had been only natural that the young man had reacted as he had, only natural for him to want to show his gratitude, with a simple kiss.

It didn't have to mean anything more than that, and in truth, to him, it probably hadn't.

He probably hadn't thought beyond that instant, to how either of them might react once contact was broken and they had to return to reality.

He hadn't declared undying love for her, indeed, he hadn't said anything at all, and the fact that he had kissed her so deeply, so passionately, so ardently, she now understood, as a doctor and as a woman who had seen more of the world than the nineteen year old Mackenzie Jarvis had, it had been a purely hormonal, physiological reaction.

For men, there was a vast difference between emotional love and physical love.

The two didn't automatically go together.

A man, she had learned, didn't necessarily have to involve his heart to get physical pleasure and satisfaction.

Looking back, she doubted very much that there had been any sexual motive behind the kiss, certainly not on her part.

Hawke had simply been showing her a little kindness in return for her own, and had done what came naturally to a healthy red blooded young man.

She was the one who had made the mistake.

She was the one who had read too much into the simple gesture, not Hawke.

She was the one who had made a fool of herself.

Yet, she could be forgiven for that, she told herself sternly.

How else was she supposed to feel, when no other human being had offered her such kindness in a very long time?

She had been starved for any kind of affection, or human contact for so long, how was she supposed to recognise and differentiate between true love and a simple gesture of kindness?

_**No wonder she had lost her head!**_

No wonder she had seen something that she hoped was love, shining in his beautiful blue eyes, the promise of something wonderful to come, the promise of a different future to the one that she had been forced to accept for herself all these years.

She had seen what she had wanted to see.

But, in truth, there had never really been love in Stringfellow Hawke's eyes, or in his heart.

How could there have been?

They were strangers.

And, she now realised, with adult objectivity and perspective acquired after fifteen years of distance, and learning the ways of the world, she had been just as guilty of the thing that she had mentally accused him of.

She had taken the way that he had looked at her as rejection and revulsion, because that was what she was used to seeing.

That was the way attraction worked, after all.

Guys saw what they liked and then went after it.

It wasn't much different for girls either. It was how Nature worked.

She wasn't any different, if truth be told.

She had seen something beautiful in Hawke.

She had even told him that he was beautiful, that night, but she hadn't been talking about the way he looked.

Yes, he was physically beautiful, but there was something deeper in him, something in his eyes and his demeanour that told of something much more precious.

A beautiful soul.

Yes, he was handsome, but Mackenzie Jarvis had been drawn to him for other reasons.

For one thing, he was a kindred spirit, another of life's orphans, suffering the tragedy of losing his parents at a young age, which gave them something in common.

He was intelligent too, hard working in school and determined to get good grades, another bit of common ground, although she had had no idea of his ambitions for the future at that time.

He was well mannered, always polite to her if they had needed to speak at all, but more than that, he was an all round good kid. That elusive of beings, a genuinely nice kid, well behaved in the main, honourable and fair minded, he played by the rules and stood up for others whenever he thought something was unjust.

He was modest and charming and coy and a little awkward, sometimes, confident and at ease with the person that he was growing into, sure of himself and the love of his brother and Dominic Santini, self assured but also easy going, tolerant and understanding of other people's feelings, always pleasant to be around, and it was no wonder that he was so popular in school.

No wonder she had always believed him to be beyond her reach.

She knew very well what he saw when he looked at her.

At least, she _**thought **_that she did.

She had judged him in the same way as she had judged Chip and his friends, but Hawke most definitely wasn't Chip.

He had never been deliberately cruel to her.

She had misjudged him.

She had projected on to him her own feelings of self loathing and low self esteem, believed that he saw her with the same eyes as everyone else did ….

As she herself did, because she had been conditioned to see herself in that way for so long.

Yes, she had misjudged him.

Stringfellow Hawke _**had**_ been capable of seeing beyond her physical flaws, to the true beauty within.

It seemed that that night, he had seen beyond the physical, ignored the rules of attraction and acted on what he had _**felt, **_because something other than the way she looked drew him in and interested him.

Stringfellow Hawke _**was**_ different from the others.

Very different.

And yes, there was no denying that _**she**_ really had fallen in love with _**him**_, in that heartbeat, that unique instant between heartbeats when anything was possible and she felt beautiful and cherished and wanted for the first time since her parents passing, when his arms had crushed her to his body and his lips had met her own with such fierceness, possessing her completely, heart, mind, body and soul, time its self had stood still.

Mackenzie Jarvis had been born in that moment, the woman that she was today, had come into existence, and it was all because of that moment, when a truly beautiful young man had forgotten about convention and the rules that the rest of the world lived by, and had demonstrated that true beauty came from within and that for a brief instant, someone could see her true beauty shining through and treat her just like any other young woman.

In that moment, Mackenzie Jarvis had known what it felt like to feel truly beautiful for the first time in her life, to know how it felt to attract a man and be blessed with his affection in return, and she had never forgotten that feeling.

In that moment, she had seen an altogether different kind of future for herself, seeing for the first time ever, the possibility that she might one day find a husband to love her and maybe together they would raise a family of their own.

In that moment she had seen for the first time that not all men were desirous of physical beauty, an ornament for their arm or eye candy for other's to admire and lust after, but instead could be happy with a woman who was their intellectual equal and could offer support and love and friendship and companionship as they journeyed through life together.

Albeit briefly, she had seen for the first time, that some day, someone might just be able to see beyond her physical flaws and the inadequacies of her flesh, and find something worthwhile, deep down inside her, worthy of his love.

She wasn't worthless.

She had so much to offer, if someone would just take the time to look, and see for themselves.

It had been a beautiful promise, an insight into what could be, and it wasn't Stringfellow Hawke's fault that it had never amounted to anything.

Nor did she blame him for opening her eyes to a beautiful new possibility, raising her hopes, only to have them dashed once again on the rocks of reality and disappointment.

His destiny lay in a different direction to her own, she had always known that.

That night, she had come to see a new direction for her life, that she was no longer destined to become a nun.

But, nor was she destined to embark on a future as Mrs Stringfellow Hawke.

_**Hey, now, let's just get things back into perspective here, kiddo!**_

It had been a beautiful experience, a wonderful, magical moment that had made a deep impression on the young, insecure, self conscious, teenage Mackenzie Jarvis, but that was all that it was ever meant to be, a moment of illumination, to open her eyes to what her future was really destined to be.

God truly did work in mysterious ways, and he had revealed his true purpose for her life in this magical and devastating way.

A selfless kiss, from the lips of a beautiful soul, who had understood her intention to offer him comfort and healing, and whom had been moved to respond in kind.

It had been both a beginning and an end for her.

The beginning of a new life, a new outlook on life, a new perception of herself and what she was capable of going on to achieve.

There was a whole world of possibility out there for her to explore, and no limitations to the opportunities that suddenly opened up to her.

And it was truly the end of childhood.

The end of her innocence.

Then end of her life in the shadows, the end of feeling worthless, inadequate, valueless, unwanted and unlovable.

Her eyes had been opened to many truths that night, thanks to Stringfellow Hawke, and she had embarked on a journey of discovery, about herself and the world, and had found strength, dignity, a determination and a ruthless stubborn streak, a sheer bloody mindedness to succeed, at any cost, that had driven her on to her ultimate goal.

She didn't have to settle for just being a nurse, when she had the curiosity, intelligence and capability to become a doctor, all her teachers at High School had said so, especially with the grades she was consistently achieving, and they had scolded her for her lack of ambition, when she had told them that she had her heart set on nursing.

They had no idea about the fact that she had always believed that it was her fate to cocoon herself within the religious life and that nursing was all that she could hope to achieve within that cloistered existence.

Indeed, they had no idea about her background before she had enrolled there, and she had deliberately kept the fact that she resided in a convent and lived exactly as the Sister's did when she was with them, preparing herself for her future life with them, from them, indeed, had deliberately kept it from everyone, but if she was honest, it had not been difficult to conceal, simply because no-one had ever taken enough interest in her to ask about her life outside of school.

It had suited her.

No awkward questions about her family, no discomfort about not being able to ask her friends back to watch TV or listen to records, no need to lie about curfews and ground rules about seeing boys and not being allowed to go to the movies or dances.

No awkward questions, period.

Now, she saw that she no longer had to accept the constraints and limitations of a life in the Church.

That realisation blew her mind.

She could do anything she wanted with her life.

She didn't have to shut herself away from the world, from life, instead, she could reach out and embrace it, take it by the scruff of the neck and make something of herself, use some of her incredible wealth to help those less fortunate than herself, do something useful and productive with her life.

She could still realise her dreams, but now she could expand upon them, and she could make a real difference to the lives of her friends in Africa.

She did not have to hide herself away from the world, ashamed of the way that she looked and sounded, ashamed of whom she was and the wickedness inside her, always trying to atone for something that was not her fault in the first place.

Yes, she had a faith, a strong faith, who would not after having been surrounded by the religious way of life since she had been nine years old, but it had never been the driving force behind her acceptance that all she could hope for her life was to devote herself to God's service.

It had always been a fait accompli for Mackenzie, a decision made for her by people who, although they believed they had her best interests at heart, had also had their own ambitions and agendas, and had raised her to believe that she was full of wickedness and sin, and needed to be more devout and more faithful to drive that wickedness from her heart.

That night, Mackenzie Jarvis had realised that she was not wicked. Wilful, stubborn, head strong, fiercely intelligent and driven to the point of obsession to help those who were weaker and less fortunate than herself, yes, but not wicked.

As a child, she had been a free spirit, indulged by loving parents who had wanted her to face the realities of life, good and bad, head on, allowing her to roam around their African homestead exploring the wildlife and making friends with the tribes people, seeing life and yes, death, as natural things that were not to be feared, but embraced and faced head on.

When the Church had taken her in, they had seen this feisty side to her nature as a problem and quashed it, calling it sinful, because they had needed her to be disciplined and controllable, to conform and to follow their rules.

After that fateful night, Mackenzie had also realised that she had not been responsible for her parents' deaths, and that it had been cruel of everyone to allow her to believe that she was being punished for that freedom of spirit and joy of life.

She suspected that it had not been a deliberate cruelty on their part, they truly believed in the concepts of goodness and wickedness and that God punished those who went against his will, but it had still been a terrible thing to do to a child.

Now, Mackenzie Jarvis knew that what had happened to her parents had been a terrible, tragic accident, and that she had been lucky to survive it too.

Far from being ashamed, far from feeling guilty that she had survived, as a punishment, Mackenzie had made herself believe that she had been spared because God did indeed have a purpose in mind for her, and that it was to help less fortunate, disadvantaged people, with her money, and her skill and knowledge as a doctor.

Her wickedness had not killed her parents, and God had not taken them from her as a punishment, but she had been too shocked, too grief stricken, and far too young to fully understand, withdrawing into herself, covering herself in guilt and shame, hating herself, believing that she would never be good enough to gain forgiveness, no matter what she did, and that she would never be loved or wanted, never be valued or understood or accepted, except by God and her Brothers and Sisters within the Church.

She had made herself ugly, turning to food for comfort and solace, because what she ate was the one thing she had any control over, using that as an excuse why no-one would ever want her or love her, because it was a more acceptable excuse, even to herself, than because she was wicked and sinful.

She had punished herself. Made herself ugly and inconspicuous, hiding herself away under loose fitting, dowdy clothes, because it was the only way she could face each day without love and affection.

That night, the scales had fallen from Mackenzie Jarvis' eyes, and she had seen a wealth of possibility ahead.

She had seen it as a crossroads, a choice of paths that she could take, instead of the one straight road that she had believed was her only route to a happy, fruitful, peaceful and productive life.

However, she had also known in her heart that whatever path she chose to follow, it did not mean that Stringfellow Hawke was meant to travel the same route, beside her.

His destiny lay elsewhere.

He was ultimately destined to return to war, and he did not need the unexpected complication of emotional entanglements that would distract him and make him vulnerable.

Then there was also St John to take into consideration.

String would not rest until he had his brother back safely, or he found out what had really happened to him.

If she understood one thing about Stringfellow Hawke, it was that he was tenacious and determined, and there would be no room in his life for anything, or anyone else, until he had resolved the situation with his brother.

Yes, his future lay in an entirely different direction.

And so it had proved to be.

She really had no idea how he had really felt that night, fifteen years ago, she only recalled what she had seen, and what she had read into the look on his face.

Shame, guilt, embarrassment, regret, but that was _**her **_interpretation, and perhaps, upon reflexion, it had been a distortion of the truth.

Had something magical passed between them that night, and they were both simply too shocked, too young, too inexperienced and too emotionally overwhelmed to recognise it for what it was?

Love.

True love.

How did he recall the events of that night?

Did he even remember it at all, or had it simply faded from his memory, irrelevant and insignificant?

Well, he was here, large as life and as challenging and unsettling to her equilibrium as ever, and no doubt, she would find out soon enough.

It was way past time that she dealt with it.

Perhaps that was another reason why God had steered Hawke here to Zarundi, not only so that he could benefit from her medical experience and skill, but so that she could draw a line under the events of that night fifteen years ago, and finally move on.

Yes, she had fallen in love with him, but even now, at the grand old age of thirty four, she had no idea what that really meant.

She had never experienced anything like that moment again.

No other man had ever seen in her what Hawke had, no other man had seen whatever it was in her that had moved him to reach out to her, and she had never again been moved to offer her heart to another.

It wasn't that she hadn't been open to the possibility now. It simply hadn't happened, and it had soon become obvious to her that she had had her moment in the sunshine, and that whilst it had been a moment of revelation, an epiphany, she had been right not to build her life and her future happiness around it.

It had been a glimpse of a possibility, not a guarantee of what was to come.

It was not meant to encourage her to believe that she was destined for earthly love.

She had made the right choice to devote her life to medicine and her heart to God.

She had learned to make friends over the years, good friends, had even developed some close relationships with both men and women, along the way, but none of them had ever touched her in quite the same way as Stringfellow Hawke had.

There had been no romance, and no man had ever come close to stealing her heart.

How could they?

She had given it away, willingly, unconditionally and without expectation, to Stringfellow Hawke.

Over the years she had schooled herself to ignore the disappointment, refusing to believe that one simple kiss could be so significant, that it might really mean that she had missed the boat, that she had lost the one and only chance she would ever have in this life to find true love and happiness with her soul mate, that it was Stringfellow Hawke or no-one.

It couldn't be that cut and dried.

Things had simply turned out the way that they had because it was meant to be.

And yet, a small part of her could not help asking why it was that God had given her such a capacity to love, and then denied her someone to give that love to?

She had a big, warm heart, full of love, so why did no-one want it?

And why it was it so wrong for her to want to have someone to love just for herself?

Why was it so wrong for her to yearn to have someone of her own to love her back? Wasn't that what everyone yearned for?

_**Stop that, right now, dammit!**_

She was the person that she wanted to be, doing what she had always wanted to do, in the place where she belonged. It would be foolhardy and ungrateful to want or ask for anything more.

And yet, she could not deny her loneliness, the ache in her heart to share her achievements with someone she loved and who loved her.

Nor could she deny the ache in her arms, the need to hold someone close, and have them hold her in return.

_**Stop this kiddo, it's not productive. **_

_**You have to stop wishing for things you can never have.**_

_**I thought you had made peace with this!**_

Loving Stringfellow Hawke was easy, she had never really stopped, but the possibility that he might feel something for her, if only pity, was a complication that she could do without.

Heartache she just didn't need.

So, she would treat him the same way that she treated all her patients, with respect but also cool, professional detachment and aloofness, and when he was well, he would disappear from her life once more, and that would be that.

Closure.

Full circle.

And she could go back to loving him in the only way that was safe, for either of them, from a distance, without his ever having to know about it, so that he would not feel badly about not returning her feelings, and she would never have to face his rejection of her affections for him.

It was better that way.

For both of them.

_**And now it was time to pull herself together!**_ She told herself sternly.

_**This was not doing any good.**_

It was self-indulgent and far from cathartic, and if she wasn't careful she would lose all her professionalism and objectivity.

Hawke wasn't out of the woods yet, and she needed to keep her wits about her.

_**Enough!**_

Mackenzie Jarvis kept one hand firmly on the flight control stick and used the other to discreetly wipe away the tears that had fallen unhindered down her face, then dragging in a deep, calming breath, she pasted a smile on to her face and responded to Father Paddy's insistent waving with a thumbs up, realising that he was drawing her attention to the silhouetted outline of the Mission's outbuildings, and the warm, soft yellow light emanating from the convent, and the Infirmary beyond, reassuring and most welcoming.

Home.

She let out a deep sigh of relief.

She would soon be able to get out of this magnificent helicopter, and to shake off the imposing aura that was her pilot's presence in the cockpit.

That was what was troubling her.

She could feel Stringfellow Hawke's formidable and indomitable personality all around her as a tangible thing. She would feel better when she and Father Paddy had this beastie secured in the barn and she could immerse herself in the fascinating work of forensic science, seeking the answers to questions about where the African man had been, what had killed him, and had he unwittingly passed the fever that had consumed him on to Stringfellow Hawke too?

At last they reached the outer boundary of the Mission, where the barn, store rooms, well-head, and the two large brick buildings that housed the electricity generators and the emergency fuel supplies that powered them were located, and when she alighted from the helicopter to help the elderly priest to wrestle with the sturdy wooden gate, Mackenzie could see the exhilaration in Father Paddy rheumy blue eyes, a huge grin on his face, so pleased with himself was he.

Mackenzie Jarvis gave him a wide, genuine smile, hoping that his critical eye would not detect her recent lapse into weeping, but, if he did, he would attribute her red rimmed, puffy eyes to tiredness.

Together they opened the gate and then returned to their respective vehicles for the last few hundred feet of their journey then they opened up both doors to the barn so that Father Paddy could drive the flatbed out through the rear exit, leaving the helicopter safely within, and then, finally, Mackenzie Jarvis was climbing out of the helicopter for what she hoped was the last time, helping the elderly priest to remove the heavy tow rope from both sets of rear landing gear and then she secured the heavy bolts at top and bottom of the barn door behind her before joining Father Paddy in the flatbed truck once more.

Father Paddy eyed her curiously as she gave a heavy sigh as she slid in beside him.

No doubt about it, she looked exhausted, but there was something else too, a haunted quality to her eyes, and again he was struck by the certainty that something was troubling her deeply.

He opened his mouth to speak then saw the look that she was giving to him and decided against it, saying instead, "Thank God that's over."

"Amen," she grinned, knowing that that had not been what he had really intended to say, but relieved nevertheless that he had quelled his curiosity, if only temporarily.

"Do you still intend to carry out a post mortem tonight?" He asked now, and she nodded. "Then promise me that you will take a bite of supper first. You've eaten little all day, child," he reminded gently, as she wrinkled her nose, more out of disinterest than distaste, for her appetite had deserted her, but she recognised the wisdom in his reminder. "How would we cope if you got sick?"

"Alright father, I'll grab a sandwich," she promised.

"See that you eat it!" He boomed, ramming the gear lever into first gear and crunching the clutch, making her wince as the flatbed shot forward suddenly, almost catapulting her out through the windshield.

"Oops!" Father Paddy grinned as he yanked on the steering wheel, still obviously enjoying his little adventure, and Mackenzie Jarvis held on to the dashboard, finger tips white, holding her breath as he roared off back through the outer courtyard, finally screeching to a halt outside the main house, grinning all over his face.

"Speed merchant!" Mackenzie chuckled as she climbed out of the flatbed, and gazing back at him over the top of the flatbed cab roof as he too climbed out of the driver's seat. "Thank you for your help, Father."

"You're welcome, child. On days like today it's good to be alive," he grinned then grew serious once more. "Be kind to yourself child, and get some rest."

"I will, later," she assured. "Goodnight, father."

"Goodnight, doctor, I'll be sure to mention you in dispatches," he gave her a gentle wink with his right eye before turning and walking off in the direction of the church and then she too walked off in the direction of the mortuary already forgetting the promise to grab a sandwich before she began work on the African's autopsy.


	6. Chapter 6

_REUNION is an original story, inspired by the U.S. T.V. series AIRWOLF._

_Copyright refers to the author of this original material, and is not meant to supersede any copyrights held by Donald P Bellisario or any other persons or corporations holding rights to the television series AIRWOLF and its characters._

Chapter Six

**Several thousand miles away,**

**Knightsbridge, Headquarters of The Firm.**

**Early Sunday Morning.**

In his quiet office, Michael Coldsmith Briggs III, Code name Archangel, Deputy Director of Special Projects for The Firm, now sat behind his desk, a perplexed expression pulling down his pleasant features, as he impatiently tapped the tip of his rosewood cane against his good leg.

He had watched the sun come up, legs resting up on the desk after an uncomfortable night dozing intermittently in the chrome and leather swivel chair, and had then set to pacing up and down, trying to work out some of the pain in his game leg and his deep feelings of frustration and ineffectualness.

He was awaiting the return of Marella, the exotic and extremely intelligent, dark haired beauty who was his assistant, who had remained in the operations centre over night, manning the telephone and monitoring radio channels all over the African continent, as well as keeping him abreast of the status of other various on-going operations.

Archangel's thoughts were with only one team.

Airwolf, and her crew.

They were utmost in his mind, although there were several other more crucial missions going on in The Soviet Union, Communist China, Cuba, and in Central America that required his complete attention.

Still he couldn't get his mind off Hawke and Santini and what they might be facing on their little junket into Cimbawe and Kembala.

Archangel now captured his bottom lip between his teeth and nibbled on it absently, having run out of fingernails to chew on.

Patience was the name of his game, and Archangel was a grand master, but he had a limited supply of that precious commodity, and dealing with the bureaucracy and sheer bloody minded recklessness of the other agencies involved in the mission to rescue Robert Nimbani, had definitely stretched it beyond its usual endurance.

Arrogant nit-wits, each consumed with the kudos they would receive when Nimbani finally stood up in front of the world and acknowledged their part in his liberation, instead of focusing on all that could go wrong before he even got out of that hell-hole prison Mendofa was holding him in.

The hardest thing for Archangel was the lack of communication, both with the other agency controllers, and with Hawke himself.

_**What idiot had decided that they should maintain radio silence once Hawke had confirmed his rendezvous with Colonel Benjamin Kubasa's KPLA, at their camp in Cimbawe?**_

Archangel hated being out of the loop.

He hated having to wait on others to decide what they should tell him, what they considered that he needed to know.

He hated being in the dark.

He needed to know what was happening to his people on the ground.

Marella had kept him up to speed with all the other operations that he was over seeing, but the African operation was beyond his control.

He was worried.

There had been no solid, reliable intelligence since yesterday, when Archangel had finally received notification that the mission was finally a go, scheduled to begin at dawn, local time in Cimbawe, Sunday, and as there was approximately an eleven hour time difference, Archangel had been able to arrange that he not be disturbed, on any matter other than the Airwolf mission, holing up in his office and leaving strict orders that he was not to be disturbed, unless it was about Airwolf, and then only by Marella herself.

That had been five o'clock yesterday, Saturday, evening.

Now, more than twelve hours after the mission had been due to kick off, there was still no news.

Archangel didn't like it.

Hawke and Airwolf should have been well on their way back to the States with their precious cargo, _**if**_ all had gone according to plan.

_**And if it had not ….**_

Well, then they should have heard something about the fate of Airwolf and her crew by now.

Archangel had a bad feeling about the whole business.

He knew that he should have listened to Dominic Santini, and sent Airwolf and her crew in for a surprise, surgical strike, no fuss, no muss, in and out.

When he had reviewed the mission brief, Archangel had been outraged on Hawke and Santini's behalf.

Too many damned holes.

Too many assumptions, and not enough solid information, which to Archangel's way of thinking, meant far too many ways that things could go to hell.

But, it had been out of his control.

No-one was listening to him, no matter how long, or loudly he protested, and he had eventually received orders from above, from Zeus himself, to back off and keep his nose out of it.

He wasn't head honcho on this one, only a very small cog in a much bigger wheel.

However, he was the only one who could see that common sense and reason had flown out of the window, everyone concentrating on the prize, instead of the actually getting to the winning tape, the job of getting Robert Nimbani out alive and home free.

Still, Archangel found it difficult to relinquish control.

Hawke and Santini were more than just regular operatives.

For one thing they were essentially civilians, but after several months of dealing with both men, negotiating their use of Airwolf for various government sanctioned missions, they were also becoming friends.

And, as for Airwolf herself ….

Whoever had done the initial risk assessment for this mission had certainly not taken into consideration what would happen if the mission failed, if Hawke and Santini were injured, or even killed.

They had overlooked the strong possibility that Airwolf would fall into the Russians hands.

Or, maybe they just didn't care, because none of the other agencies were particularly happy that the Firm had that magnificent weapon in their arsenal, even if they did not have direct control over her.

Hawke could be manipulated and used, so for all intents and purposes, the Firm were still the ones calling the shots, and Hawke would co-operate, to a point, so long as he thought that he was eventually going to get what he wanted out of the association, information on the whereabouts, or fate, of his brother, St John.

_**Dammit, there should have been some news by now!**_

Some would have said that no news was good news, but not Archangel.

He had been around long enough to know that dead men found it difficult to report the news of their own demise.

_**Dammit, Hawke, come on!**_

It had been agreed prior to their embarkation, that once Hawke and Santini had safely rescued Mr Nimbani, and they had travelled far enough away from Africa, after they had entered international airspace, Hawke would make the call to Knightsbridge to confirm to Archangel that they were on their way, providing an estimated time of arrival at the pre arranged pick up point, so that Archangel could then set in motion the arrangements so that Robert Nimbani could be taken into protective custody, secreted some place where he would be safe, to get whatever medical treatment he might require, a nap, a wash and a brush up, before being taken directly to the Headquarters of the United Nations, in New York, for a private audience with the Secretary General first, before addressing all the members at a specially arranged session of the General Assembly.

Archangel could not progress with the arrangements until he had heard from Hawke.

Of course, it didn't have to have gone to hell in a handcart, Archangel reasoned, drawing in a calming breath and expelling it as a soft sigh.

Things might have gone well in Cimbawe, but, Airwolf could well have developed a mechanical or technical problem on the return flight, that had required Hawke to put down somewhere on the African continent to effect repairs, and that was what was preventing him from making contact, forced to follow orders and maintain radio silence, for fear of giving their position away to unfriendly forces.

Or, Hawke and Santini could be lying dead some place on the veldt, and Airwolf was already in enemy hands.

_**Cynic!**_

_**Damn!**_

He didn't know anything for certain, and speculating would only put him in the hospital with a suspected coronary!

Still, it had a bad stink to it.

The whole damned business stank.

He rued the day that he had ever allowed Zeus and the committee to talk him into approaching Hawke to do this mission.

And right now, wherever they were, Archangel suspected that his name was being blackened by both Hawke and Santini, for dropping them into the fertilizer again.

If the Firm had maintained sole control of the mission, Archangel would have had more confidence in its outcome right now, but others were in control, and they had little or no interest in what happened to two California stunt pilots and their souped-up, illicit helicopter.

Archangel began to tap his cane against the leg of his desk now, forcing his mind to move away from the myriad lurid and unpleasant outcomes that the African mission might have resulted in.

Hawke and Santini were both resourceful men, and if they had survived the rescue mission, and had gotten Robert Nimbani out, alive, then hell would freeze over before Hawke and Santini would give up trying to complete their mission successfully.

After another half an hour of inactivity, his mind wondering to places he would rather not dwell, Archangel rose stiffly from his chair and limped to the bathroom adjacent to his office and after washing his hands and throwing cold water over his face, returned to his office to fish out his electric razor from the top drawer of his desk, and he was just standing in front of the mirror over the wash basin in the bathroom, running the razor over his rough, stubble covered chin, when Marella finally knocked on the office door and strode in without waiting to be summoned.

Archangel stuck his head around the bathroom door and knew that the news was not good, as soon as he saw the look on her exquisite face.

She looked pale, and weary, but it was the look in her eyes that gave the true nature of the situation away to him.

He suspected that she had been crying, although she had probably pulled herself together quickly, dashing away her tears before coming in here to present her report with her usual calm, professionalism and poise.

"Tell me," Archangel demanded, setting down the razor on his desk as he limped back around it to take up his seat once more, his heart pounding rapidly in his chest.

"They're all dead."

"What?"

"They're all dead."

Marella's voice cracked now and she dropped her head briefly, to try to regain her composure, but when she looked back up at him, he could see the tell tale sparkle of tears in her dark, obsidian eyes, and Archangel understood.

As a compassionate human being, an intelligent woman training to become a doctor one day, she detested the loss of life, so many lives, he could well imagine, their corpses littering the African veldt right now, but, as a dedicated professional, loyal and hard working, and meticulous in every detail, she hated failure just as much.

He was aware that she too had begun to form a kind of fondness for both Stringfellow Hawke and Dominic Santini, and that if they were lost too, she would take that as a personal failure.

"All of them? Hawke and Santini too?" Archangel demanded gruffly.

"That hasn't been confirmed, as yet, Sir, but Kembala state radio is broadcasting an official statement from General Mendofa, that they have successfully quashed an uprising of enemy forces, who had been trying to install Robert Nimbani as President, and that during the fierce fighting, all enemy forces, including foreign agents, were neutralized."

"Damn …." Archangel sank back in his chair with an anxious sigh.

"I've got our people in Nairobi and Cape Town and Johannesburg trying to confirm the information, but the tone of the Kembala state radio broadcast is very smug and triumphant, the General himself saying that he and his army will not tolerate any further illegal attempts to remove him from office."

"It could just be propaganda,"

"It could, but I don't think it is," Marella sighed deeply. "The last anyone heard, on this side of the pond, Hawke, Santini, and the Kembala People's Liberation Army, under the command of Colonel Benjamin Kubasa, were embarking on their mission at dawn, Sunday, local time. They sent back a signal to say that everything was ready and that they were on their way …."

"And don't tell me, after that they were to maintain radio silence until they could confirm that Mr Nimbani had been rescued and was well on his way back to the States, and that Kubasa and his men had secured Mendofa's forces?"

"Yes."

"So we actually know nothing, for sure."

"Not for sure, Sir, no, but, we both know Hawke well enough to know that he wouldn't leave us guessing, orders or not. He would have found a way to transmit some kind of signal, letting us know the situation," Marella reminded, and the look on her face told Archangel quite clearly that she believed that Airwolf and her crew were lost, and that her tears had, in part, been for them, partly in frustration at the failure of the mission, the other part out of anger and regret at the needless waste of life.

Archangel knew that she had come to like and respect both Dominic Santini and Stringfellow Hawke, and he suspected that during the night in the operations centre, she had heard enough to believe the worst.

However, Archangel himself was not quite so quick to give up on Hawke and Santini.

"What about the Russians?" He asked now, eyeing her curiously, watching for her reaction, wondering if her thoughts would go in the same direction.

She was tired, he knew, and a little emotional, but that usually didn't stop her quick mind and he knew that she would eventually catch on to what he was thinking.

"That's the odd thing, Sir," she sighed deeply. "They haven't said word one, and you would think that if they had Airwolf, they'd find some way to crow about it …." Her voice trailed away then, and now he could see the spark of hope ignite in her lovely dark eyes.

"Exactly," he smiled gently at her now. "Well, Hawke and Santini might have had orders to maintain radio silence, but _**we**_ don't," he sighed, pushing his chair back from his desk and rose stiffly once more.

"For all we know, they got out safely and are on their way back, as we speak, but Airwolf could have sustained some damage, or their radio could have been disabled," he pointed out, pacing stiffly up and down behind his desk now.

"What the hell is the point of working for a top secret government agency, with all this wonderful technology at our fingertips, if we can't use it to find one of our own?" He smiled weakly now.

"Ok, this is what we are going to do," he became all businesslike and brusque now, stopping to lean against the back of his chair as he filled her in on what he wanted her to do next.

"I want you to reassign whatever damned satellite you have to, to try to track Airwolf, on the ground or in the air, under the damned ocean if need be, and frankly, I don't care whose toes you have to step on to do it. She has an emergency locator beacon, try scanning for that, and if that fails, then dammit, get me a chopper and a pair of binoculars and I'll fly over the whole damned length and breadth of Africa myself, if I have to, but we will find her, and Hawke and Santini too, and we have to do it before the Russians get their hands on them."

"Yes, Sir," Marella smiled back at him now, and he could see the glint of hope in her beautiful dark eyes grow stronger.

"Dammit Marella, I refuse to believe that Hawke is dead. For one thing, he's too damned mean and 'ornery and down right mule-headed to be anything but bullet proof, and I just know that he hasn't done making my life miserable with his bellyaching to me about that damned brother of his, but if he isn't bullet proof, then Airwolf most definitely is. They're out there, somewhere, damaged, injured maybe, but I'd bet the farm on them being alive, and dammit, I won't rest until I find them. Just like the Marines, I won't ever leave anyone behind."


	7. Chapter 7

_REUNION is an original story, inspired by the U.S. T.V. series AIRWOLF._

_Copyright refers to the author of this original material, and is not meant to supersede any copyrights held by Donald P Bellisario or any other persons or corporations holding rights to the television series AIRWOLF and its characters._

Chapter Seven

"Still here?" Sister Eve asked the obvious question, announcing her presence in the doorway to Stringfellow Hawke's room, knowing that Mackenzie Jarvis had not heard her soft footed approach.

She regarded the young woman now, sitting beside the patient, holding one of his larger, tanned hands in her own smaller, paler one, and stroking the perspiration soaked hair back from his fevered brow, tenderly, with the other one.

It was a gesture that the Sister had seen from the younger woman many times over, with seriously ill children and those elderly patients who were not long for this world, so she did not see anything untoward or appropriate about the gesture.

It was just something that Mackenzie Jarvis did, naturally, reaching out to those in need of comfort, or reassurance, an intrinsic part of her caring, compassionate nature.

Sister Eve moved her gaze briefly to regard the patient.

At least the young man was quiet now.

He had been in the grips of a raging fever and raving with delirium, writhing and thrashing in the bed, perspiration pouring from him and his temperature had hit 104°.

It had been at this point that, regretfully, Sister Eve had sent for Dr Jarvis, knowing that she would want to see for herself the deterioration in his condition, despite the fact that Sister Eve was aware that the young medic was deeply engrossed in the autopsy on the dead African.

The living always took priority over the dead, and Mackenzie Jarvis had indeed wanted to see the patient herself and had rushed to his bedside, instinctively reaching out for his hand and leaning in close to whisper soothing reassurances in to his ear.

Whether it was simply recognition of the familiar voice, or the meds finally kicking in, Sister Eve was still not sure; the young man had indeed responded and had begun to calm down, turning to stare at Mackenzie Jarvis with unseeing, fever bright eyes, breathing rapidly, muttering and mumbling, but no longer thrashing about violently, incoherent and inconsolable.

Sister Eve had had to leave the doctor to attend to other patients, knowing that medically there wasn't much more that they could do for him.

He was already getting the strongest broad spectrum antibiotics they had, morphine for pain relief, and other analgesics and anti pyretic drugs to reduce his fever, and she had seen to it herself that his IV fluids had been replenished, and she had updated his chart before attending to her other duties, knowing that so long as he gleaned some comfort from her being there, Mackenzie Jarvis would not leave his bedside.

It was now well past midnight, the early hours of another Monday morning, and the doctor had been sitting with the young man for almost two hours, monitoring his condition, and talking to him in a soft low voice.

Still the young man's temperature stubbornly refused to drop, despite the antibiotics, and with their limited resources, they simply couldn't replace the ice packs around him quickly enough, so they had cranked up the air conditioning and ceiling fans as high as they would go and every desktop fan that they could spare had been brought to his room and positioned around him, so that they could maintain a steady flow of cool air directly at his overheated body.

As soon as she had arrived, Mackenzie Jarvis had increased his sedation, purely so that he wouldn't tear open the artery in his shoulder with his violent fever driven thrashing, yet, as she regarded him now, Sister Eve could see that the poor man was far from still, still shivering and shaking with fever, twitching spasmodically, but she was relieved to see that they had staved off the very real threat of convulsions, the doctor's main concern when she had first arrived.

The young man was definitely calmer, but he was still muttering and mumbling incoherently, his head moving intermittently from side to side. At least he was no longer screaming, thrashing about, lost in delirium.

Still Mackenzie held on to his hand, squeezing it gently now and again, talking to him in a low voice, stroking his hair from his brow, running her fingers gently down his rough, stubble covered jaw line and cheek, trying to give him comfort.

Reaching out to him, reassuring him that he was not alone.

"No rest for the wicked," Mackenzie Jarvis quipped, smiling wearily as she lifted her gaze from her patient's flushed face and turned to regard Sister Eve.

She was exhausted, and guessed that she must look a fright, but somehow, she could not force herself to leave Stringfellow Hawke's side.

"No wicked folks around here, doctor," Sister Eve countered, her tone indicating that she simply would not permit it then she smiled gently back at the younger woman. "You should get some rest."

"You've been talking to Father Paddy."

"For my sins," Sister Eve quickly crossed herself then grinned at the younger woman. The elderly priest was often times difficult to deal with, but his heart was in the right place. "But we can't both be wrong," she pointed out. "And it has been a long and extraordinary day."

"Indeed it has, Sister."

"He seems a little better," the Sister Superior cast her glance briefly back to the young man, again taken by just how attractive he was, and again briefly wondered just how deeply Mackenzie Jarvis's feelings for the young man went.

"Appearances can be deceptive, Sister," Mackenzie Jarvis sighed softly. "He's had some kind of crisis," she explained a frown pulling down her brow. "It seems to have passed, for now, but his temperature still bothers me. It should have started to come down by now," and it was plain for the older woman to see the concern and anxiety in her deep green eyes now.

"Then you should get some rest, while you have the chance. Go, please. I will send for you, if his condition worsens again."

"I'm alright," Mackenzie assured the Sister Superior now, although she knew that she must look like she felt, washed out and utterly exhausted, functioning on adrenalin and not much else.

"You're dead on your feet, Mack. Do as you are told, for once in your life." Sister Eve sighed impatiently.

This was an old battle.

Sometimes she got the upper hand and made Mackenzie see reason, and sometimes the younger woman's stubbornness won out.

There was never an outright winner and Sister Eve suspected that there probably never would be, not while there were sick patients that required the doctor's complete attention.

"Mr Santini is resting comfortably. I just looked in on him, and did his obs. Mr Hawke seems more settled now. There is no need for you to stay," Sister Eve reasoned. "I will sit with him for a little while," she offered. "You can't do everything by yourself Mack, and you can't function properly without food and rest," she concluded.

"You think that I can rest, that I can sleep, after all that has happened today?" The doctor's tone was incredulous now.

"You're almost asleep on your feet, child, but even if you find sleep elusive, you could at least show the rest of us mere mortals that you too are human, and pretend!" Sister Eve grinned. "I have a hard enough time keeping the Sister's in line as it is. You know that they all feel that they have to try so much harder, just to be half as dedicated and professional as you. If you carry on like this, my dear, you'll start a mutiny! Snatch a few hours rest, while you can, please Mackenzie."

However, even as she finished speaking, Sister Eve could see the reluctance in Mackenzie Jarvis' eyes.

"He wouldn't want you to make yourself sick, Mack," Sister Eve glanced at Stringfellow Hawke and then back to Mackenzie Jarvis. "Your friend. He wouldn't want you to stop taking care of yourself, just so that you can take care of him."

"Oh no, no you don't Eve, you can't guilt trip me. He wasn't _**that**_ good a friend," Mackenzie denied quickly, but Sister Eve was not convinced, for there was something in the younger woman's eyes now that betrayed something much deeper. "More of an old acquaintance really," Mackenzie qualified now. "He probably won't even recognise me when he comes too."

"Even so, you owe it to yourself, and your other patients, doctor," Sister Eve again changed tactics. "They all deserve you to be at your best," she reminded solemnly now, and finally, Mackenzie Jarvis had to concede that she did have a point.

Worn out as she was, she was more likely to make a mistake, a drastic mistake that might even cost a patient their life, and Mackenzie Jarvis knew that she would never be able to live with her self if that happened.

"You are the only qualified doctor within two hundred miles, Mackenzie, so you owe it to all of us who rely on you, to take good care of yourself."

"Oh boy!" Mackenzie rolled her eyes heavenward now, but she could not suppress a smile. Eve's change in tactics, appealing to her conscience, had done the trick, this time.

"Ok, ok, how can I possibly argue with that?"

In truth, she could not, for the Sister Superior was right.

There was a great deal of responsibility on her shoulders, and that meant that she had a greater responsibility to keep herself fit and well and functioning at peak performance.

All her patients were equally important to her, and more often than not, she was their only hope of a cure, of survival, so she had a duty to each and every one of them to be at her very best, so that they got the very best of care.

"Don't even try, child. Better men than you have tried, and failed miserably. After all, I have someone much wiser and much more formidable batting for my team," she could not suppress a grin now. "I will have you know, in my day, I have been known to reduce grown men to tears, with just one look!"

"No? You Holy terror!" Mackenzie quipped and watched the older woman actually blush.

In truth, Mackenzie knew that Eve was tougher than she looked. She had to be to maintain order and keep the convent and the Infirmary running smoothly and efficiently.

Mackenzie could well imagine that she had once done a similar job in a big city hospital, perhaps as Senior floor nurse, or some such, and had honed her skills over the years keeping impressionable young nurses in line, and arrogant young doctors in their place, making sure that they knew just how far they could go in pushing her staff around to get what they wanted.

Firm, but fair, Eve would stand her ground if she believed strongly in something, not unlike Mackenzie herself, and Mack could easily imagine an indignant, bristling, Eve sending even the most high handed of consultants away with a flea in his ear if he dared to over step the mark.

"Ok, I know when I'm beaten," she smiled softly once more, but then turned her head slightly to look down at the unconscious young man in the bed.

His face was still flushed, head rolling slowly from side to side, lips moving soundlessly, obviously still mithered, and she could not help wondering where he was, and what was disturbing his mind so.

Earlier, his screams had all been centered around his brother, St John, clearly reliving that awful day when he had been lost to him, and it had again set her to wondering if he had ever discovered his brother's whereabouts, or his fate.

Then his mind had turned to other matters.

A new name, torn from him with such pain and grief and anguish.

Gabrielle.

_**So, that answered that question.**_

_**He had found himself someone special to share his life with.**_

_**So be it.**_

But then, why was there such despair in his voice when he screamed out her name?

_**Another lost love, Stringfellow?**_

_**Another heart break?**_

_**But just whose heart?**_

The look on his face and the pain in his voice answered that question for her.

_**Poor String ….**_

_**Always the bridesmaid, never the bride ….**_

After that, his thoughts had turned to his old friend, Dominic Santini, and he had grown agitated and inconsolable as his mind seemed to fix its self on the events leading up to their arrival in Zarundi.

Yes, he was quiet, for now, but all her instincts were screaming at her to stay, that it wasn't over yet, and that while danger still lurked, she should not leave him, fearing that something awful would happen if she left him, but she made herself quickly quash that notion, recognising it as part of the weariness and fatigue that had settled over her since she had returned with Father Paddy, after retrieving that wonderful helicopter of Hawke's.

_**Faith and trust, kid, have a little of both, and get some sleep, before you end up in one of these beds as a patient yourself!**_ She told herself sternly, and then, after giving Hawke's hand one last gentle, reassuring squeeze, she rose, somewhat stiffly from the hard backed metal chair and after releasing his hand, and resisting the temptation to reach out and stroke his cheek one last time, she stretched her spine and rolled her shoulders and neck to ease out the kinks, before walking gracefully to the door, where she stopped and reached out to give Sister Eve a brief hug.

"He's in good hands, child," Sister Eve assured as Mackenzie finally drew away from her. "Rest well."

Again, Mackenzie Jarvis could not resist one last glance back over her shoulder.

"Go child. I will send for you if his condition worsens," Sister Eve promised softly, drawing back the younger woman's gaze once more. "Sleep."

Mackenzie Jarvis nodded gently and then forced her leaden legs to carry her out of Stringfellow Hawke's room and down the corridor, and although sleep was the furthest thing from her mind, she knew that she would take the older woman's advice, and go and lie down for a little while, and allow her brain time to process everything that had happened today and then she could face the new day with a fresh perspective, her nerves and her emotions tightly under control once more.

"Well now, why am I not surprised to see you here? You're a fine one, using me to me to persuade Mack into getting some sleep, and here you still are," Sister Eve chastised as she regarded the elderly priest, seated beside the peaceful, sleeping form of Dominic Santini.

Of course, she wasn't surprised to find Father Paddy still up, even at this late hour. He invariably suffered from insomnia, and would often spend the long, quiet nights alone in the church, seeking solace in the worn pages of his much loved, battered old Bible, or lost in deep thought and prayer.

However, when he had returned with Mackenzie, after their little adventure out in the desert earlier this evening, Sister Eve had seen a rare glimpse of excitement in the priest's watery blue eyes, and she had suspected even then that he would find sleep just as elusive as their workaholic doctor.

"Ah well now, Sister, you see, the big difference between us is that I hadn't just spent hours in surgery putting our friend here and his companion back together," he pointed out with a soft, wistful sigh. "Besides, you know Mack as well as I do. If you hadn't bullied her …."

"I prefer the word persuade, Father," Sister Eve quickly corrected him, with a sour expression.

"Alright, if you hadn't 'persuaded' her, she'd still be in the lab, pouring over a microscope, going blind staring at slides and trying to figure out what happened to the other poor fella in this unfortunate party."

Sister Eve nodded softly in acknowledgement, walking deeper into the room now and once she reached the foot of the bed, she took down Dominic Santini's medical chart, double checking to see the last time his obs had been recorded.

"I take it you finally did 'persuade' her?" He regarded her with an arched eyebrow now.

"I tried," Sister Eve sighed, raising her gaze from the medical chart and shrugged as she looked at Father Paddy. "You know Mack," she sighed again. "You know the old adage, 'you can lead a horse to water, but you can't make it drink'?" she gave a small, half smile. "She said that she would rest, but after she left here, she could just as easily have made her way straight back to the lab, for all I know."

"She didn't," Father Paddy assured with a gentle smile now. "I checked."

"I'm glad. She was all in."

Sister Eve replaced the chart at the foot of the bed, satisfied that her staff were following Dr Jarvis' orders and keeping a watchful eye on their patient, despite the fact that his young companion was keeping them pretty busy just down the corridor.

She then moved with silent grace to the head of the bed, checking the levels of fluids in the IV bags hanging from the drip stand.

"Indeed she was, but when did that ever stop her?" Father Paddy sighed. "I don't know why she is so driven …." His voiced trailed away then, as he realised that he was about to cross a very fine line in discussing another colleague, despite the fact that they were both concerned for the younger woman.

"Her drive is what keeps this place going, Father, we both know that."

"Indeed," he acquiesced, rubbing a gnarled old hand roughly over his face briefly. "And praise God for it."

"He's doing well," Sister Eve responded to a questioning look from the priest now, as she took Dominic Santini's big paw of a hand in her own and sought the pulse point in his chunky wrist. "His pulse and respiration are good, no sign of respiratory distress, his temperature is stable and his blood pressure is levelling off," she told him in a soft voice, replacing Santini's hand back on top of the crisp, white linen sheet and giving it a gentle pat.

"And the other fella?"

"Not so good," she gave a deep sigh of frustration now. "His temperature is very erratic. It has only varied by a degree or two all night, and I'm afraid that Dr Jarvis is right, it should have started to come down by now. He had some kind of crisis earlier," she explained. "And I could see that Mack was reluctant to leave him, even with my powers of persuasion, because she knows that he is not out of the woods just yet …."

"What goes on there, I wonder?" Father Paddy sighed, raising his gnarled fingers to rub at the bridge of his nose now, closing his eyes as his fingers massaged gently at the point where he could feel a pressure headache beginning to build up.

Sister Eve made no comment, and the elderly priest realised that he was probably being indiscreet again.

When he opened his eyes, he expected to see a warning or an admonishment in Sister Eve's eyes, but instead he found her anxious gaze drawn to the open doorway, head tilted slightly to one side, focusing on the corridor beyond, from where he too could now just make out the soft, hurried footsteps coming in their direction.

They shared an anxious look.

"Sister?"

"Something's wrong," Sister Eve moved from Dominic Santini's side now, edging her way back to Father Paddy and the doorway.

She knew the sounds of the night, the rhythm of the hospital routine, and the soft, scurrying footsteps were out of place.

As she moved in to the doorway, a breathless young Sister came to a sudden, abrupt halt before her, and let out a startled little gasp of surprise.

"Yes my child, what is it?" Sister Eve greeted her in a soft, reassuring voice.

"Sister, would you come, quickly, please," the younger woman asked in a low voice, but there was a note of urgency in her tone that Sister Eve could not fail to recognise. "I'm afraid Mr Hawke is very poorly," Sister Clementine imparted a little breathlessly.

Sister Eve and Father Paddy exchanged anxious glances then Father Paddy nodded his understanding to Eve that she had to go.

It might be nothing, an over exaggeration by a young, less experienced member of her junior staff, or it might be something urgent. Sister Eve, he knew, would not take any unnecessary risks with patient care.

"Thank you, Sister," The Sister Superior gently dismissed the younger woman and then turned her attention back to Father Paddy.

"Go ahead, Sister. I will join you in a moment," he told her with a gentle look in his eyes. "I still have a few more words to say to the 'Boss', on behalf of our friend here," he absently waved his hand toward where Dominic Santini still slumbered peacefully.

Sister Eve nodded and then gracefully followed Sister Clementine down the corridor, back to Stringfellow Hawke's room.

Father Paddy gently laid his hand over the top of Dominic Santini's and bowing his head, offered up a silent prayer for his continued peaceful rest and complication free recovery, and then, wearily he gathered up his cassock skirts and made his way down the corridor.

He had not had a chance to look in on the younger man as yet, and he wasn't sure exactly which room they had put him in, however it soon became obvious, for just a little ways down the corridor, he suddenly became aware of a man's voice, raised in despair, although only one word was distinguishable to the elderly priest, and when he heard it, the Father could not help wondering if it spelled their doom.

"_**Mack**_!"

Father Paddy arrived in the doorway of the young man's room and took in the scene before him with dismay.

The young man was obviously very ill indeed, thrashing about in the bed, head rolling wildly from side to side on his pillow, legs kicking out against the linens neatly tucked in around him, arms violently fending off Sister's Eve and Sister Clementine's efforts to still him.

His eyes were wide open, brilliant blue irises almost obliterated by hugely dilated pupils, black disks burning bright with fever and unshed tears, cheeks aflame, a purplish hue clinging to his unshaven chin, and such an awful sound coming from his lips, animalistic in its quality, like some wounded beast keening.

However, the thing that dismayed Father Paddy even more than the sight of the young man in the grips of a raging delirium was the sight of fresh blood, a small spot blooming vividly against the clean, pristine white dressing on his shoulder.

"You cruel sonofa …." Hawke's top lip curled up menacingly as he mumbled feverishly, his eyes, unseeing, darting around the room in search of something, or someone. "Take that back, Chip! No, Mack, wait! No, don't go, Mack, please …. Wait! I love you! I love you, Mack! Please, look at me!" his voice rose a notch, in desperation, as he wriggled and squirmed, fighting against the two Sisters attempts to hold him still.

"Sister, hold him. Careful, child! We need to keep him still," Sister Eve was calmly issuing instructions to the younger Sister, although Father Paddy knew her well enough to pick out the hint of anxiety in her voice.

"Gently, Sister! He's opened up that wound," she pointed out needlessly, as she wrestled to capture one of the young man's flailing arms, before he did some serious damage to Sister Clementine's pretty young face with his lashing out.

"Ah, Father, thank heaven, could you come here and take over for Sister Clementine, please?" Sister Eve implored him with her eyes, relieved to find him standing in the open doorway. "I need her to go and fetch some fresh dressings, and prepare another sedative for me to draw up," she explained, a little breathlessly.

Father Paddy walked deeper into the room and nodded gently in response to the Sister Superior's request, moving around the bed to take over from the younger woman.

"Should I go and get Dr Jarvis too?" Sister Clementine asked as she moved toward the door, a note of urgency in her voice now.

"Yes …."

"No!" Father Paddy's voice boomed over the top of Sister Eve's, countermanding the Sister Superior, and his emphatic reaction drew both women's gaze sharply to him now.

Sister Eve frowned, not liking being over ruled in her own Infirmary, but when she caught a glimpse of the odd expression on Father Paddy's face, she gently nodded her assent to Sister Clementine, deferring to the elderly Priest's wishes on this one occasion, merely because she did not have time to argue with him about his reasons.

She needed the younger woman to go and get the things that she had requested, especially the sedative. They could do nothing with the young man fighting against them like this.

However, uppermost in her mind was the fact that she did not want to be seen to be questioning Father Paddy in front of a younger Sister.

He obviously had his reasons for not wanting Mack here, just yet, and the sooner she sent Clementine on her way, the sooner she would discover what they were.

She waited until Clementine left the room, and then she glared at Father Paddy, watching him wrestling with Hawke's flailing arm, and trying to avoid being kicked at the same time.

"Lord, he has the strength of ten men!" The elderly priest grumbled, ignoring Eve's scathing look.

"Father, Mack should be here. I told her that I would send for her if he worsened," she protested, fending off a low blow from Hawke's other arm now.

"She needs her rest," Father Paddy insisted, but he disliked the idea that he was making a liar of his colleague in Mackenzie Jarvis' eyes.

"Father, if he has reopened that wound, he'll need to go straight back into surgery," Eve pointed out. "I'll have no other choice ..."

"Mack! Mack, please!" Hawke wailed. "No please, don't look at me like that! It wasn't me …. I didn't know …. Please, Mack, wait. Wait! I love you! I love you …. I love you!"

Stringfellow Hawke was sobbing raggedly now, reaching out to where he obviously saw the object of his affection, tears mingled with perspiration streaming down his rosy cheeks.

"Easy son, easy," Father Paddy tried to soothe, but it was obvious that the young man could not see or hear him. He was lost in his own world of heartache and misery and despair.

The priest turned his attention back to Sister Eve.

"I hear what you are saying, Sister, and if that is the case, then so be it, but not just yet. The damage might only be superficial."

"But Father …. She should be here. She should hear this," Eve gave him an imploring look now.

"Hear what? The deranged ravings of a man in the grips of delirium? He's out of his mind with fever Sister, what good could it possibly do?" He demanded haughtily.

"How can you even ask that?" Sister Eve's tone was incredulous. "You know she has this crazy idea in her head that no-one will ever love her? Maybe for once in her life, the child needs to know, needs to hear it …." Eve protested now.

"No," Father Paddy remained stone faced as he battled to get a firm grip on Hawke's arm now. "Honestly Sister, I'm surprised at you. You know better than to take seriously anything said by a patient in the grips of delirium. He doesn't even know is own name right now, Sister, much less what he is saying," he reminded her sternly.

"But …."

"I know your intentions are pure, Eve, but now is not the right time. Not like this. Look at him, he can't know what he is saying," Father Paddy pointed out in a gentler tone now, not unsympathetic to Eve's point of view, but he was trying to be more objective.

"It wouldn't be fair to either of them," he reasoned. "And _**if **_it is true, and he _**is**_ talking about _**our**_ Mack, then she deserves to hear it from him when he is calm, rational and in command of his faculties, when he's had time to think about what he is saying, and what it might do to her to hear those words from him," he reasoned fervently now.

"And if it's not true …. We will have saved the poor child a good deal of heartache," he added solemnly. "If she were to hear this from him, now, she would never really know for sure if it was the fever talking, or if it was the truth. And what about him? She told me that she hasn't seen him since they were teenagers. You can't believe that he has kept this to himself all this time for any other reason than he did not want her to know? Believe me, Eve, no good would come of it," and Sister Eve could see that he did have a valid point.

"Think about it, Sister," Father Paddy could see that she was wavering now and he continued to make his point. "Mackenzie is already very fragile, physically, after working practically non stop for almost forty eight hours, and we can only imagine her emotional state, after all, he is a friend, someone from her past, someone that she has already demonstrated that she cares deeply about. It's already a difficult situation for her. We must not make it more so, especially if his condition is as serious as you say."

"All right, Father," Sister Eve sighed deeply in acquiescence, despite the sour expression on her face.

She could understand that he was only trying to protect their young friend from disappointment and heartache, but in Mackenzie Jarvis' place, knowing how low was her self esteem, knowing with just how little regard the younger woman actually held herself in, Eve believed that she would want to know, that she would need to know that there was at least one other soul in the world who loved her.

Yet, Eve also knew that everything that Father Paddy had said had more than a grain of truth about it, and nothing in this world would move her to do anything to hurt the girl who was more than a colleague and friend.

Whatever it was that remained unresolved between these two young people had waited all this time, it could wait just a little longer, she reasoned.

"But only because Sister Clementine will be back any second, and I really don't have time to debate this with you," she told him in a cool voice. "If, in my medical opinion, I feel it necessary to summon Dr Jarvis, rest assured, I will do so."

"Very well, but at least try to get his ravings under control before you do, for all our sakes. Do you really think she could handle hearing something like this? Do you really think he means it? She wouldn't thank you for getting her hopes up, only to have them dashed. Whatever these two young people might, or might not be to each other, it is for them to discuss, privately, when they are both calm and rational. Surely I don't have to remind you that first and foremost, she is his physician and that anything of a personal nature would be totally inappropriate and completely unacceptable to Mack. She will need all her strength and resolve to remain professional and aloof and detached as it is."

Father Paddy made a concerted effort to control Hawke's flailing arm now, seeing from the solemn expression on Sister Eve's face that he had made his point.

His heart was heavy in his chest.

Sister Eve's words ringing in his ears now.

_**You know she has this crazy idea in her head that no-one will ever love her? Maybe for once in her life, the child needs to know, needs to hear it ….**_

Mackenzie Jarvis had never said it in so many words, but he understood the tendency to melancholy and insecurity, now that he stopped and thought about it.

_**Poor child.**_

_**Didn't she know how loved she was by those who surrounded her every day?**_

_**Perhaps.**_

But the love of a man for a woman was different in every sense.

He understood now that Sister Eve was referring to Mack's lack of self esteem, and her belief that she was not destined to experience earthly love with any man.

Oh yes, she made it into a joke, laughed it off, but now, Father Paddy understood the truth of it.

She thought that she was ugly.

Displeasing to the eye.

And that this made her unworthy of any man's love.

It suddenly explained a lot to him.

For one, her real reasons for burying herself alive out here, in the arid, boiling desert of Africa.

_**Silly child. **_

There was nothing ugly about her at all.

She had a lovely face, with the most unusual green eyes he had ever seen, the colour of dark, lush moss growing on the shady side of a tree, with tiny yellow gold flecks in the irises that twinkled and sparkled with life and humour and love, and the most heartrendingly beautiful smile he could ever wish to see.

Yet it was more about what she did, the way she thought and behaved and lived her life that made Mackenzie Jarvis truly beautiful.

What was inside.

Her warmth.

Her sensitivity.

Her kindness, and generosity of spirit, and her compassion and drive.

He had believed that all these years, she had denied herself the opportunity to experience love with a man, because it was part of her selfless commitment to her medical career and her obsession to shoulder the burden for relieving the suffering of others, gladly sacrificing her own happiness along the way.

A conscious decision, to forgo her own happiness, to better achieve her goal.

Now he began to see it in a new light.

What if it hadn't been her own decision?

What if she had somehow come to believe that it was not her destiny, because she didn't have a perfect hourglass figure and the face of a goddess?

What if she had somehow been conditioned, brainwashed into believing that she simply was unacceptable?

A misfit, out of place in a world that increasingly placed more importance on aesthetics, the way a person looked, than justice and equality and the goodness in people's hearts.

The thought made his blood boil.

What if it wasn't self sacrifice after all?

What if she had simply been running away?

Hiding her self away?

But why?

She had so much more to offer than just a pretty face and a desirable body?

Surely, as a physician, she, more than anyone understood that with time, these things faded, and were, therefore, not of any importance in the grand scheme of things.

She had much more substantial things to offer any man in a relationship.

Warmth.

Affection.

Charm.

Intelligence.

Humour.

Friendship.

These were the things that endured in a truly worthwhile relationship.

If she hid herself away, buried herself in her work and her head in the sand, hating herself, not taking proper care of herself, perpetuating the myth in her own mind, that she was unlovable and unworthy, then there was no sacrifice at all.

It was easy to sacrifice something that one did not believe they were meant to have in the first place.

Whatever way he looked at it, it wasn't living either.

Mackenzie was denying herself the full and wholesome life that she had been born for. Hiding away from real life. Not dealing with it.

Is that what had happened between herself and this young man?

Had he somehow got close enough to frighten her, to challenge her whole experience of life and her view of herself, and it had caused her to flee from him and the world, because it was easier than facing up to it?

That thought made Father Paddy's blood boil even more.

All this time he had thought that she had made a conscious choice to give up the chance of a home, husband and children of her own, consciously decided to forgo those things so that she could fully commit herself to her patients.

Now he began to see that what she had really done was throw herself into her work in a bid to make it easier to live with the notion that those things were beyond her expectation anyway.

The perfect excuse to not have to deal with the complexities of living in the real world.

_**What a waste, child. What a waste.**_

_**The love between a man and a woman is so much more than purely physical, when it is the right man and the right woman, and you never gave yourself the chance to learn that for yourself.**_

Yet, he wondered if he was being just a little hard in his condemnation of Mackenzie Jarvis.

She had lived out there in the real world, during her years in school and in medical training.

She had tasted real life, so perhaps her experience in the real world had only endorsed what she had already suspected.

Perhaps she just hadn't met the right man.

Or, perhaps she had, and she was so wrapped up in the negative opinion of herself, she could never accept that anyone would ever see her in a different light.

If she couldn't like herself, then how could she seriously expect anyone else to like her?

If she couldn't love herself, then how could anyone else?

_**Foolish child.**_

Still, whatever had transpired between Mackenzie and this young man now was not the time to pursue it.

All that he had said about Mackenzie requiring to remain aloof and detached emotionally, to maintain a professional distance was still true.

At that moment, Sister Clementine returned with the supplies that Sister Eve had requested and the Sister Superior busied herself with taking the hypodermic syringe and vial of sedative from the younger woman, checking the vial and the dosage of sedative it contained against the drug chart on the foot of the bed, and then drawing it up carefully, double checking the dose in the now loaded hypodermic and then administering it into Stringfellow Hawke's arm quickly, and Father Paddy silently continued to try to restrain the young man, until the sedative finally began to take effect, and then he stepped back from the young man's bedside, allowing Sisters Eve and Clementine to work on settling him and checking his shoulder wound.

"Oh thank heavens," Sister Eve let out a deep sigh of relief when she peered at the wound to Hawke's shoulder. "It looks like he's only torn open a couple of stitches," she explained, lifting her gaze to regard Father Paddy. "I'll still have to get Dr Jarvis," she told him, somewhat regretfully. "His general condition is of grave concern to me, Father. It is my medical opinion that Dr Jarvis should be in attendance. And not just because she'll have to check the whole wound and then re-suture it."

"Will he have to go back into theatre?"

"No, it's a simple job that can be done here."

"Can't you do it?"

"No, Father. I'm sorry …."

"Very well," he acquiesced with a gentle nod.

"It's for the best, Father. His condition is critical now. His temperature is up again, and if we can't get it down, quickly, he could be at high risk of convulsions. His respiration is deteriorating too, and his heart rate is erratic …." Her voice trailed away, leaving him in no doubt about the true severity of his condition after this latest attack of delirium and fever.

"What are his chances?" Father Paddy asked softly after Sister Eve had despatched the younger nun, Sister Clementine to fetch Mackenzie Jarvis.

"At this point, Father, I wouldn't like to say."

Father Paddy nodded softly, knowing that he could be of no further assistance.

The young man needed medical assistance more than spiritual comfort, and he would just be in the way, once Mackenzie Jarvis got here.

Still, he could not stop himself from reaching out to take the young man's now still hand, briefly, squeezing it reassuringly as he reached out with the other to offer a blessing over his perspiration dewed, fevered brow, and then Father Paddy silently withdrew, making his way slowly, and with a heavy heart, back to his much favoured and well worn pew in the church across the courtyard, where he offered up a fervent prayer that the young man would find the strength to prevail over this illness, and that Mackenzie Jarvis would find the strength to face up to whatever the future might hold for her from this point on, because he had a strange feeling that she was going to have her safe little world turned upside down, and could not help feeling that it was about ruddy time too!


	8. Chapter 8

_REUNION is an original story, inspired by the U.S. T.V. series AIRWOLF._

_Copyright refers to the author of this original material, and is not meant to supersede any copyrights held by Donald P Bellisario or any other persons or corporations holding rights to the television series AIRWOLF and its characters._

Chapter Eight

Mackenzie Jarvis sank wearily down into the chair beside Stringfellow Hawke's bedside, her legs no longer able to support her weight, reached out, holding on tightly to his hand, and hung her head in utter despair.

She had never felt so helpless in her life.

She was losing him.

She could feel it.

His body was afire with fever, his breathing labored, and his heart racing.

She had no more idea now what was causing his fever than when she had first examined him, and no matter how much antibiotic they were forcing into his veins, his temperature was still through the roof.

She had been roused from a strange dream, full of doom and darkness, foreboding and a sense of having been cast adrift, by Sister Clementine's soft knocking on her bedroom door, and had immediately bolted out of bed, knowing that something was terribly wrong.

Sister Eve had quickly explained about the most recent episode of fever and delirium and the resulting torn stitches to his shoulder, and together they had worked at re-stitching the wound and applying a fresh dressing.

Now, Mackenzie was finally alone with Hawke.

She had seen the strange look on Sister Eve's face as she had left the room, but Mackenzie had been beyond caring about propriety at that point.

She had done all that was physically and medically possible for Stringfellow Hawke now, the rest was in his, and the good Lord's hands.

It was ironic really, that despite all her years of book learning and training, all her medical knowledge and skill, the wonders of modern medicine and the powerful new antibiotic and drugs available to her, it now came down to only that.

Stringfellow Hawke's determination and strength of will, and the good Lord's benevolence.

It was a battle that only the two of them could wage now.

She could play no further active part in the outcome.

If she had to say at that moment, what she thought that outcome might be ….

That would depend upon what Stringfellow Hawke thought he still had to do in this world, what difference he thought he could make by remaining in it.

What Stringfellow Hawke felt was important enough to live for.

And to what degree God himself agreed with Hawke in what He thought was important and what was not.

What differences He wanted Hawke to make by remaining here amongst the living, where Hawke fitted in His grand scheme for them all.

Not even she could second guess God.

If Hawke was going to die, then she wasn't about to let him die alone.

_**Please don't let him die!**_

_**Please.**_

_**Please.**_

_**Please ….**_

_**Oh God, give him the strength to live, but, if it is your will that he must die, then please, please, give me the strength to bear it ….**_

Ragged sobs were suddenly torn from her, ripped from the very depths of her soul as Mackenzie Jarvis finally allowed herself to acknowledge just how deeply she loved this man and just what she had walked away from that night on that Californian beach.

She had always thought of it, not so much as running away, but running to. Running toward the life she had always dreamed of, here in Zarundi, the life she had pledged herself to for so long.

Now she understood the truth.

She _**had**_ run away.

She had run away because, put simply, she had been frightened by the power of her feelings, by the discovery that she could actually love that strongly and that deeply, so quickly.

She had taken flight simply because she could not deal with the reality of loving this man, and the possibility that he might really feel something for her too.

It was easier to accept that she would never be loved.

After all, it was all that she had ever known.

All that she had ever been led to expect.

Over the years, she had loved a lot of people, but precious little of it had come to her in return.

This time was different.

If she allowed herself to love Stringfellow Hawke, and it turned out that what she had seen in his eyes, tasted on his lips, felt in his embrace, was a mistake, that he did not reciprocate those feelings, Mackenzie Jarvis had known that it would destroy her, for he was the one man that she knew she wanted to trust, to believe in, to love with all her heart and soul and build a life and future with.

The one man she might just be tempted to forsake her dream for.

But, if she was mistaken about what she had seen in his eyes ….

For her, it would simply have been one rejection too many.

One that she would never recover from.

It had been easier to throw herself into her studies and her work and to never have to face the possibility that he too might have feelings for her, and that, inevitably, one day, he would come to his senses, one day, he would look at her and see her for what she really was, and the love would disappear from his eyes, and soon, he too would disappear from her life.

She had run away, fled into the night, panic stricken, terrified, overwhelmed and utterly confused, yet marvelling at the complexities of human emotion, that falling in love could make her feel so totally elated one minute, and completely devastated the next.

She had allowed herself a little heartbreak then and spared herself a whole lot more later on.

She had been a silly child, out of her depth, scared and unsure of herself, desperately protecting herself from the pain of rejection and disappointment, without ever once stopping to contemplate that neither might actually happen in reality.

She had made a mistake.

A stupid, childish mistake.

She had allowed her head to over rule her heart.

She had done them both a great disservice.

She had been afraid to experience real life and in fleeing, had denied both of them the opportunity to see where things might lead, the chance to learn if what they had felt that night, the promise in that one magical, magnificent kiss, was something fleeting, or if it would endure until the end of time.

She hadn't given either of them a chance.

In not wanting to make the mistake of making more out of a simple kiss than had been intended, of making a fool of herself and losing her head as well as her heart, telling herself that she was not good enough for him, that he deserved someone better, someone who could give him so much more than she ever could, she had bolted.

She had slammed the door firmly in the face of any possibility that together they might find a meaningful future, before she had even had the chance to ponder on the miracle of it becoming a reality.

Things like that simply didn't happen to girls like her.

Boys like Stringfellow Hawke could pick and choose, and they did not choose to spend their lives with girls who looked and sounded like Mackenzie Jarvis.

No matter how she looked at it, all she could see ahead of her was a whole lot of heartache.

Love him, only to discover that he did not feel the same way, to have to see in his eyes, the pity he felt for her.

Or love him enough to walk away, to let him go, to allow him to live the life that he had been born for, to love him from afar, where neither of them would get hurt.

She couldn't allow herself to love Stringfellow Hawke, she just couldn't, for his inevitable rejection of her love would be something that she would never get over.

Better not to put her self in that position at all, ever.

And so she had run.

Her mind in turmoil, she had walked and walked, beside herself with a mixture of guilt and shame, not knowing where she was heading, or really caring, until she had found a quiet, sheltered cove, and had then spent the night in prayer and quiet contemplation.

As dawn had illuminated the sky, feeling drained and more alone than she had ever felt in her life before, her decision made, her future mapped out in her own mind, Mackenzie had returned to the borrowed convent station wagon, which she had parked a little ways away from the lot where the rest of the girls had parked, before joining the guys on the beach, and had driven herself back to the refuge of the convent, the only home she had ever really known, and after attending morning devotions, had gone in search of Mother Patrice, the Mother Superior, to ask her help, putting her case forward and outlining her plan for her future in soft, quiet, but determined tones.

After much soul searching and praying, the Mother Superior at Van Nuys had finally begun to see that something momentous had happened to young Mackenzie Jarvis, and that she had her heart set on this new course.

Admiring her new found determination and focus, Mother Patrice had eventually agreed to look into the possibility of assisting her to change courses from the basic nursing course she had currently been enrolled on at UCLA, to a pre-med course, and to Mackenzie's request to relocate to San Francisco, because she had heard that the David Geffen faculty of UCSF, San Francisco was one of the best medical schools.

Mackenzie had made her decision.

She had chosen her path.

She had never once regretted the decision to become a physician, but, until this moment, she had never allowed herself to acknowledge that it hadn't all been due to her desire to heal the sick and her drive to relieve the suffering in the world, but, that in part, it had been her own need to protect herself from the pain and heartache of rejection.

It hadn't been completely selfless after all.

She had chosen to protect herself from rejection and disappointment, to protect her heart, throwing herself into her work and sealing herself off from any and all personal involvement, because it was inevitable that she would get hurt, if she allowed herself to care in any other way than as a doctor.

And now it was too late.

Too late.

"No, dammit! I won't let you die!" She railed, wringing Hawke's hand now in utter desperation, beside herself and reeling under the weight of emotions she had not allowed herself to feel for almost fifteen years, no longer able to hold back the tears, no longer able to hide from the truth, to kid herself that what she felt for this man were still only the shy, tender, innocent feelings of a desperately lonely and awkward teenager.

She was a grown woman, and even if she had not been aware of it, the love she felt for this man was that of an adult, not a child.

It had been, from the very start.

"Fight this, dammit. Fight it!" she implored raggedly between sobs and gasps for breath, tears streaming down her cheeks and dripping off her chin, but she either did not notice, or did not care.

She loved him, had always loved him, and would go on loving him until her dying day, and this was probably the last time that she would be able to touch him, the last chance that she might ever have to show him, to tell him ….

"Fight, String, dammit. Fight to live. I love you! Don't just lie there, you lazy yank! Fight it dammit, fight to live. I'm so tired of being the one doing all the damned work here!" She sobbed angrily now.

"Pull your finger out, and beat this thing, Stringfellow. You've got to. You've got to live! St John needs you. Dominic needs you. _**I**_ need you. Dammit, do you hear me, you lazy yank? Fight! Fight!" She beseeched, so consumed with sobs now she could hardly get the words out, as she brought his hand up to her face and pressed it gently against her own flushed cheek, then moved it slowly, to press her warm, soft lips to the delicate flesh on the back of his hand, wishing that she could gather him in her arms and hold on to him, much as she had clung to him that night fifteen years ago, on that distant beach, when she had lost her heart to him in that instant between heartbeats.

"I'm sorry, so sorry, love. I didn't have enough faith in you .… in me …. I didn't have enough courage. I'm such a coward. I should have trusted you. I'm so sorry, String. Please, don't die. Please …."

Tears silently cascaded down her cheeks now, as Mackenzie rose and leaned over Stringfellow Hawke, slipping her hand carefully under his neck so that she could gently raise his head off the pillow, then lightly rested her forehead against his, feeling the heat radiating off him as tears coursed down her cheeks, splashing off her chin on to Hawke's over heated body and then she leaned further in and pulled him closer, so that his chin was resting heavily against her shoulder, his ragged breath intermittently fanning her neck and earlobe as she used the other hand to gently stroke his damp hair comfortingly, willing him to live, praying that somehow she would be able to reach his fevered mind and perhaps give him one last reason to cling to life.

"I love you, String …." She whispered in to his hair, her voice thick and slurred as the words almost choked her. They sounded so strange, even to her own ears, but she could not deny the truth of them any longer.

She did not know what would happen if he survived, what the future might hold for them, once he was well.

All she knew was that if he died, something of her self would die with him.

"Oh my love, I didn't know it was possible to fall in love, not like that," she whispered into his delicate ear now. "And I never dreamed that you might feel the same way," she confessed raggedly.

"Loving is something I always found easy, it's something that I know that I can do, but, ah, my dearest, being loved back, that is the trick I never quite mastered …." Her voice caught in her throat then and she drew in a ragged breath.

"It never happened to me before, so I found it hard to recognise, harder still to believe. Did you love me, String? Or did I just see what I wanted to see in your eyes that night? Was it just wishful thinking, or did you really fall in love with me between heartbeats that night?"

Hawke let out a soft moan, and Mackenzie briefly felt his body stiffen against her, then he relaxed, briefly, before drawing away from her, slowly, his hand coming up to touch her face, cupping her chin, pushing her hair back from her cheek with his thumb, a gesture of such tenderness it almost broke Mackenzie's heart.

His beautiful blue eyes were open, filled with such an earnest expression of love and hunger, but she still had no idea if he knew who she was, until he spoke.

"Don't leave me," he implored, voice low and husky, breathy and weak, his eyes wide and burning bright with unshed tears and fever, and for the briefest instant, Mackenzie's heart leapt with joy and hope.

"You promised! Don't leave me," he beseeched, his arm coming down and around her shoulders now, hand squeezing her upper arms, his strong fingers biting into the delicate flesh now, with more strength than he should have possessed for a man in his weakened physical condition.

"_**Gabrielle!**_ You promised you wouldn't leave me. Why? _**Why?**_ Why did you have to die? You promised ….."

Hawke began to sob softly, and despite the fact that once again her heart was shattering into a million tiny pieces, despite the pain and disappointment and despair that tore through her once again, Mackenzie Jarvis gathered him close, fresh tears streaming down her face as she rocked Hawke soothingly, her thoughts only for him, wanting only to console him and ease his grief.

"Hush now, there, there, I've got you. It's going to be alright, there now. Hush, hush …."

"Why do they always leave me?" Hawke's head dropped, his chin resting heavily against her shoulder once more as he breathed raggedly into her ear now, his soft, warm breath fanning her cheek and neck, his hot tears soaking into the thin material of her blouse. "Everyone I love leaves me," he moaned. "Everyone. Mom. Dad. St John. Carrie-Ann, you."

Startled by the vehemence and heartache she could hear in his voice, Mackenzie Jarvis swiftly drew away from Hawke, pulling away just far enough so that she could get a good look at his face.

His big blue eyes were blinking rapidly, indicating that he was finding it hard to focus, fighting to keep them open, but they still burned bright with fever, no sign of awareness or lucidity in them, and she could see no sign of recognition of her in them, no hint that he knew that he was talking to anyone other than the woman he had loved, and lost.

_**Gabrielle.**_

Mackenzie blinked away her own tears, and hugged him close once more.

"Hush now, my poor love, rest easy," she soothed, taking comfort from the fact that he did seem to have some fight left in him after all, whilst trying not to dwell too deeply on the fact that whilst he might be the love of _**her**_ life, she obviously was not _**his**_.

Gabrielle was.

And she was dead.

_**How could she ever hope to touch his heart now?**_

Yet, somehow, that suddenly made things a little easier for Mackenzie Jarvis to face.

Nothing had changed.

_**What had she been thinking?**_

_**Why would a man like him want her love?**_

She was back on familiar ground.

He was never going to look at her and see anything but an old acquaintance, at best, a bitter reminder of a moment's folly at worst.

He need never know how she really felt about him, and she could go on loving him from afar.

_**No harm, no foul.**_

_**All was as it should be.**_

_**Status quo restored.**_

"_**Gabrielle!"**_

Mackenzie drew in a ragged breath slowly, reconciled once again to the life that she had chosen for herself, and cradling Hawke's over heated body against her shoulder, she gently stroked his hair once more.

"I'm here my love, I've got you, and you must fight this. Fight this and live, do you hear me my love? I want you to live. It's not your time yet. You have to live …."

Mackenzie felt a brief pang of guilt for using a dead woman to instil the will to live into the man that she loved with all her heart, but she had no other weapons left in her arsenal, and she did want him to live, desperately wanted him to live.

She wasn't adverse to playing dirty when she had no other choice, and, she reasoned now, perhaps hearing someone he believed was Gabrielle tell him that he should fight, live, that she wasn't ready for him to join her just yet, might just make the crucial difference, and Hawke would never know if he had been hallucinating or dreaming, once he was well.

So what did it matter if that heart ache she had been trying to avoid had found her anyway.

_**And then some!**_

So, it was as she had always believed.

He was not destined to be a part of her life, nor she a part of his.

He loved another. That would not change, despite the fact that she was dead.

He would never love her, Mackenzie told herself sadly.

Never.

Knowing how she felt for him would not change that.

It would only make him more uncomfortable with her.

The love she felt for him was unconditional and given freely, as a gift, without expectation that it would ever be returned in kind.

Some times, all the love in the world didn't mean that two people were right for each other, or that they were destined to be together.

Sometimes, love just wasn't enough.

For all intents and purposes, he was a stranger.

She had no proof that he had ever loved her, but, if he had, it had been a very long time ago, and only fleetingly.

It would have been as a boy, inexperienced in the ways of the world and life and love, when everything had been new and exciting and filled with wonder and awe.

Now he was a man, mature and much more in control of his emotions and his hormones, no longer prone to wonder and awe because he knew what life was really all about.

Hawke had grown up, lived his life and moved on, had obviously found real happiness with Gabrielle, and Mackenzie Jarvis knew that she could never hope to live up to that in Hawke's eyes.

No matter how much she loved him.

Stringfellow Hawke continued to cling to her, sobbing softly, mumbling incoherently from time to time, and Mackenzie cradled him comfortingly, savouring every precious moment of his nearness, until he again grew quiet, and finally slipped into a restless, fitful slumber.

Then, carefully and regretfully, Mackenzie extricated herself from his embrace and retook her seat beside his bed, reaching out to take his hand lightly in her own once more, knowing that sleep was out of the question right now.

She hung her head once more, fresh tears welling up in her eyes, and she began to pray that Hawke's life would be spared, for the world had to be a better place with him in it, and that when the time came, she would find the strength to let him go once more.

_**Let him live, Oh, Lord …. **_

_**I will do anything …. **_

_**Anything you want …. **_

_**My life is yours, Thy will be done. **_

_**I am your servant my Father …. Do with me as you wish ….. **_

_**But let him live …. **_

_**Please …. Let him live ….**_

Whilst she prayed, Mackenzie Jarvis was completely unaware of the fact that Sister Eve had unwittingly witnessed the whole tender scene from just beyond the open doorway and was now walking silently back down the corridor, her mind in turmoil, filled with frustration and confusion about all that she had witness this night, tears gathering in her own eyes, as she tried to put herself in Mackenzie Jarvis' place and imagine how the poor child must be feeling

Suddenly, Sister Eve had never felt more relieved that she had not over ruled Father Paddy earlier, and insisted that Mack be fetched so that she could hear the young man's declaration of love for her.

_**Poor Mack.**_

Sister Eve's heart constricted in her chest as the girl's words rang in her ears, as she quietly made her way to the pantry and kitchen area down the hallway, to make herself a fortifying cup of tea and gather her thoughts, seeking out a quiet place to make some sense of the nights revelations and to commune with her Maker.

_**Loving is something I always found easy, it's something that I know that I can do, but, ah, my dearest, being loved back, that is the trick I never quite mastered ….**_

Sister Eve recognised the truth in her words.

Even now, Mackenzie Jarvis did not recognise love when she saw it.

And now she had the perfect excuse to bury her head in the sand once more, and not to pursue the possibility that this young man really had loved her, once.

The possibility that he might still love her, even now ….

All Mackenzie would focus on was that he had lost the woman that he loved to death, and that he was obviously still grieving that loss, on some level.

Yet, Sister Eve could not help thinking that she had heard the same grief and anguish in his voice earlier, when he had been calling out for Mack?

Was it possible that he was still grieving the loss of that love from his life, all these years on?

Sister Eve knew Mackenzie well enough to know that all the girl would see was that he was grieving the loss of the woman that he loved, that she would never be able to see beyond that, that she would never see that whilst he might still have feelings for this Gabrielle, she was dead, may she rest in peace, gone to a better place, but Mackenzie was alive, and so was Stringfellow Hawke, and he might yet be able to love her as a man loves a woman.

They did not know how long Gabrielle had been gone, how long the young man had been alone. Maybe it was time for him to put the grief behind him, and start living again?

Maybe that was why he had turned up out of the blue?

Lord knows, Mackenzie Jarvis had so much love to offer any man.

And perhaps the Lord _**did **_know, and that was why he had guided the young man here to her, so that she could save his life, and that her love could mend his battered heart.

And in turn, perhaps Stringfellow Hawke could show Mackenzie what it meant to be loved, as a woman, for herself, for the beautiful human being that she was, for the first time in her life.

Half an hour later, Sister Eve returned to Stringfellow Hawke's room carefully carrying a pretty china cup of strong tea for Mackenzie Jarvis.

As she expected, she found the doctor still seated beside Stringfellow Hawke's bed, holding his hand gently in her own and watching as he slept.

Almost immediately Sister Eve was aware that there was something different about the other woman. Something in her manner, but the Sister Superior could not quite put her finger on what.

"How is he?" Sister Eve inquired as she stood in the open doorway, taking in Mackenzie Jarvis calm demeanour.

No, it was more than that.

It was cold, withdrawn, completely emotionless ….

"Quiet," Mackenzie Jarvis informed, and there was something so quiet, so lacking in energy and life in her voice, it made Sister Eve's blood run cold.

"Mack?" Sister Eve gave her a questioning look, which the younger woman chose to ignore as she finally dragged her gaze away from her patient.

"I think his fever finally broke."

Sister Eve could see that something vital and alive had gone from the girl's eyes, and a wave of sorrow washed over her.

"His temperature is down, a little, and he seems to have stopped thrashing about," Mackenzie continued in a lacklustre voice, and Sister Eve immediately realised the reason why the doctor seemed so odd.

_**Poor Mack.**_

She had already begun to harden her heart against him.

Already pulling away, building up barriers, detaching herself.

Once again the calm, poised, detached, emotionless and aloof doctor watching over a patient.

_**Poor child ….**_

How desperately unhappy she must be ….

How desperately alone and miserable she must be feeling right now ….

Having seen the man that she loved calling out for his lost love …. Knowing that it was not, and believing that it could not ever be _**her**_ that he wanted ….

She had poured out her heart, and now there was nothing left. She was completely devoid of emotion, because it was the only way that she could continue.

She had killed whatever measure of love and compassion and hope that had remained within her stone dead because it was the only way that she could face the new day.

Face the rest of her life, without the love of the man that she loved.

"I think maybe he turned the corner …. What time is it?" Mackenzie asked frowning at Sister Eve as she continued to regard her with an expression on her face that the doctor thought looked remarkably like pity.

"Four thirty," Sister Eve pulled her thoughts together and walked into the room now. "I made you some tea," she came to stand beside Mackenzie Jarvis and handed her the teacup and saucer and watched her take a sip of the strong, sweet brew.

"Thanks. Time I was thinking about going to Church …."

"I'm sure Father Paddy would overlook you missing devotion, just this once,"

"He might, but his Boss is a different kettle of fish …."

"Mack …."

"I need to go and freshen up."

Mackenzie Jarvis deliberately ignored the note of concern in the older woman's voice now.

It was taking every ounce of strength and will power that she had left just to keep the façade of calm and poise and professionalism in place, when what she really wanted to do was crawl into a deep, dark hole and curl up and die ….

She had sacrificed so much already in her young life ….

This was the ultimate sacrifice. Turning her back on the chance to know if it was possible that she might know love from this man, for a second time ….

The price she had willingly offered to pay in return for his life.

The pact she had gladly made with her God, in return for his continued existence.

"Thanks for the tea," Mackenzie took another small sip before handing the china cup and saucer back to Sister Eve. "I think he's going to be alright, Sister," she gave a soft sigh now, rising carefully from her seat. "He should sleep for a while now, and I've written him up for some pain meds, when he wakes up. After Church, I'll do my rounds as normal and then I'm going to bed."

"Mack …."

"It's been a tough night, Sister, and you're right, I need to get some rest …. Oh, and by the way, I'll be going to Nairobi tomorrow morning, so if there are any last minute things to add to the list you should let me know tonight …."

With that Mackenzie Jarvis walked with grace and dignity out of Stringfellow Hawke's room, leaving Sister Eve frowning in consternation at the sudden change in her behaviour, although she suspected that she knew what really lay behind it.

Stringfellow Hawke.

Sister Eve turned to watch the young man as he slept, calling to mind the tender scene she had accidentally witnessed and the anguish and grief that had so consumed Mackenzie Jarvis.

She understood the younger woman so much better now.

All her life she had harboured the belief that she was ugly and worthless and that for her, love was a one way street, always the one to bestow the gift, but destined never to receive it.

Sister Eve knew that Mackenzie Jarvis was wrong.

But how to make her believe it, that was the quandary.

Love came in different forms, the love of a mother for her child, the love of a brother for his brother or sister, the love that also came with close friendship, and of course, the love of a man for a woman and vice versa.

Poor Mack, with her insulated, cloistered life she had not really known any kind of real love and had schooled herself to believe that it was somehow her fate.

Gods will.

Sister Eve suspected that God had an entirely different opinion in the matter.

Two of his children, so alone, touched by tragedy and loss, both needing love, and so full of love to give to someone else ….

Somehow, they had managed to miss the chance for happiness together, the first time, and God had allowed each of them to follow another path, a long, tortuous, winding route of discovery, with many hard lessons to learn along the way, but, which had ultimately led them back to each other.

Whatever happened now was His will, and Sister Eve knew that she could not allow Mackenzie Jarvis to blow it this time around with her sense of honour and her misguided belief that the only way to love this man was silently, from afar.

The most important lesson in life that Mackenzie Jarvis had yet to learn, was that to truly love, you had to be open to the possibility that that someone could love you in return, you had to be able to recognise love when it came your way and sometimes you just had to take a chance, risk a little disappointment and heartache, until the right love came along.

Mackenzie Jarvis might think that she had everything under control, that she had reigned in her feelings and shoved them away in some deep dark corner of her heart, that she could close off her heart and her mind to the possibility of a loving future with this man, but what she had failed to take into consideration was the young man himself.

Somehow, Sister Eve found herself thinking, a wry half smile tugging at her lips as she watched the young man sleeping a little more peacefully in the narrow cot, when the meds wore off and he opened those eyes and gazed upon Dr Mackenzie Jarvis, it could prove to be a very rude awakening, for both of them.


End file.
